THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

IN  MEMORY  OF 

Professor 
Benjamin  A.  Bernstein 


DISCOURSES  OF  KEIDANSKT 


DISCOURSESOF 
KEIDANSKY 

By  Bernard  G.  Richards 


SCOTT-THAW  CO. 

542  Fifth  Avenue 
NEW  YORK     MCMIII 


Copyright  1903 
by  Scott-Thaw  Co. 

(Incorporated) 


First  Edition  Published 
March  1903 


The  Heintzemann  Press  Boston 
IOAN  STACK 

GIFT 


Note  : 

THE  majority  of  these  papers  have  appeared 
in  the  Boston  Evening  Transcript,  and 
thanks  are  extended  to  the  editors  not  only 
for  their  permission  to  reprint  the  same,  but  also 
for  the  many  kindnesses  they  have  shown  my  friend 
Keidansky  and  myself. 

All  the  papers  have  undergone  many  changes,  and 
numerous  corrections  and  additions  have  been 
made.  B.  G.  R. 


910 


Introductory 


HERETICAL,  inconoclastiCy  revolutionary; 
yet  the  flashing  eye,  the  trembling  hand,  the 
stirring  voice  held  us  spellbound,  removed  all 
differences,  and  there  were  no  longer  any  conservatives 
and  extremsits;  only  so  many  human  beings  led  onward 
and  upward  by  a  string  of  irresistible  words. 
"  Outrageous  heresies,"  some  said,  yet  those  who  paused 
to  list  en  for  a  moment  lingered  longer,  and  as  they  heark 
ened  to  the  harangues,  marked  the  words  and  followed 
the  flights  of  fancy,  it  came  to  them  that  these  dreamers 
of  dreams  and  builders  of  all  sorts  of  social  Utopias  up 
on  the  vacant  lots  of  the  vague  future;  these  ribald  reb 
els  holding  forth  over  their  glasses  of  steaming  Russian 
tea  in  the  cafes,  or  on  the  street  corners  under  the  float 
ing  red  flag — that  they  were  but  a  continuation  of  the 
prophets  of  old  in  Israel. 

'Those  who  paused  to  listen  were  loath  to  depart  and 
some  prayed  for  a  perpetuation  of  the  things  that  came 
out  of  a  throbbing  heart  and  soaring  mind.  Faint  re 
flections  here  of  the  outpourings  of  a  soul,  but  mayhap 
they  will  shed  some  little  light  upon  the  inner  life  of 
that  strange  cosmos  called  the  Ghetto  and  point  again 
to  the  Dream  it  has  harbored  and  cherished  through 
the  harsh  realities  of  the  centuries. 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

"Why perpetuate  these  things  "  you  wrote  to  me  "since 
that  life  is  so  fast  slipping  away  from  under  my  feet; 
practicability  is  urged  on  every  hand,  and  to-morrow  I 
may  be  led  under  the  canopy,  perhaps  elected  to  the 
presidency  of  a  congregation,  given  full  charge  of  an 
orthodox  paper,  or  put  into  a  big  store  on  East  Broad 
way,  and  then,  what  I  said  would  only  stand  out  to 
taunt  and  menace  me  about  the  life  that  could  not  be. 
Besides,  I  may  become  so  radical  that  I  shall  not  want 
to  say  anything"  Tes,  we  change,  and  the  castles  we 
build  in  the  air  become  tenement  houses,  and  we  are 
either  the  tenants,  or  worse,  the  landlords;  but  "life 
has  its  own  theories"  and  if  the  fine  poetry  of  youth 
be  reduced  to  plain  prose  in  later  years,  and  wisdom 
teach  us  to  be  stupid,  why,  we  are  still  apace  ahead  and 
those  who  will  come  after  shall  put  their  shoulders  to 
the  Dream  and  move  it  up  at  least  one  inch  nearer  to 
life.  "And  if  the  dreamer  dies"  as  you  said  yourself , 
"  will  not  the  Dream  live  ever  on?" 
Surely  I  And  let  me  send  you  the  glad  assurance  that 
death  will  come  sooner  than  the  presidency  of  a  syna 
gogue. 

Tou  are  safe,  Keidansky ;  the  orthodox  will  never  for 
give  you. 

We  change,  yet  those  who  fail  also  come  to  their  own, 
and  even  lost  souls  make  great  discoveries.  Did  you  not 
say  that  "  Life  is  the  profoundest  of  all  platitudes  ?  " 

7?    f~*    /? 
New  Tork,  March,  1903. 


Contents 

I  Keidansky  Decides  to  Leave  the  Social 

Problem  Unsolved  for  the  Present  i 

//           He  Defends  the  Holy  Sabbath  7 

///         Sometimes  He  is  a  Zionist  13 

IV  Art  for  Tolstoy  s  Sake  23 

V  "  Three  Stages  of  the  Game "  33 

VI  "  The  Badness  of  a  Good  Man  "  41 

VII  "  The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man  "  53 

VIII  "The  Feminine  Traits  of  Men"  65 

IX  The  Value  of  Ignorance  75 

X  Days  of  Atonement  85 

XI  Why  the  World  is  Growing  Better  95 

XII  Home,  the  Last  Resort  105 

XIII  A  Jewish  Jester  1.17 

XIV  What  Constitutes  the  Jew?  129 

XV  The  Tragedy  of  Humor  139 

XVI  The  Immorality  of  Principles  149 

XVII  The  Exile  of  the  Earnest  1 57 

XVIII  Why  Social  Reformers  Should  be 
Abolished  165 

XIX  Buying  a  Book  in  Salem  Street  173 

XX  The  Purpose  of  Immoral  Plays  1 83 

XXI  The  Poet  and  the  Problem  1 93 

XXII  "My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side  "  199 

XXIII  Our  Rivals  in  Fiftion  2 1 1 

XXIV  On  Enjoying  One  s  Own  Writings  219 


DISCOURSES  OF  KEIDANSKT 


Keidansky  Decides  to  Leave  the  Social  Problem 
Unsolved  for  the  Present 

THE  ledhire  at  the  Revolutionary  Club,  Ca 
nal  street,  was  over,  the  audience  rose,  one 
by  one,  and  ere  their  departure,  those  who 
made  it  up,  lingered  on  for  awhile  and  stood  in  lit 
tle  groups  of  two,  three  and  four,  and  earnestly  dis 
cussed  the  things  that  had  been,  and  particularly 
the  things  that  might  have  been,  said  on  the  sub 
ject.  The  peroration  was  delivered  with  fervor  and 
gusto  by  one  of  the  "  red  ones  "  of  the  Ghetto.  It 
was  on  "  The  Emancipation  of  Society  from  Gov 
ernment/'  a  theme  packed  with  meaning  for  those 
present,  and  as  almost  everybody  was  willing  to  be 
interviewed  on  his  or  her  impressions,  there  was 
quite  a  little  exchange  of  opinion  afterwards.  The 
speaker,  besieged  by  a  small  circle  of  questioning 
dissenters  and  commentators,  was  holding  an  infor 
mal,  compulsory  reception.  A  few  hard  workers  of 
the  sweat-shops,  who  slumbered  peacefully  during 
the  discourse,  came  up  towards  the  platform  to  tell 
the  speaker  how  well  they  liked  it. 
It  was  during  this  hobnob  medley  of  varying  voices 
that  I  introduced  Keidansky  to  a  lady,  a  friend  of 
mine,  who,  having  heard  of  the  wicked  things  he 
says,  and  the  queer  things  he  does,  desired  very 
much  to  meet  him. 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

As  she  greeted  him  the  lady  rather  perfunctorily 
remarked : 

"And  so  you  are  a  dreamer  of  the  Ghetto  ?  " 
"No,  Madam,"   Keidansky  answered  somewhat 
brusquely ;  "  I  am  a  sad  reality/' 
"A  sad  reality  ?  Why  so  ?  "  Smilingly,  pityingly,  she 
queried. 

"Oh,  the  reasons  are  not  far  to  seek,  not  easy  to 
find,  and  hard  to  relate,"  he  said  demurely.  "  Be 
sides,  why  augment  the  soporific  tendency  ?  We  have 
just  listened  to  a  lecture.The  monstrous  evil  of  gov 
ernment  still  exists.  The  tremendous  task  of  its  ab 
olition  is  still  before  us." 
"Yes,  I  know ;  but  tell  me,  please." 
"  Well,  then,  if  I  must  speak  of  myself — and  I  like 
nothing  better — I  will  tell  you."  He  cast  down  his 
eyes  and  spoke  quickly,  as  quickly  as  he  could  think 
of  the  right  words,  which  he  was  trying  to  find  with 
evident  effort.  "A  dreamer  disillusionized,  a  great 
might-have-been  become  small,  a  would-be  victor 
vanquished,  a  social  reformer  forced  by  society  to 
reform,  a  herald  of  a  new  dawn  lost  in  the  night,  a 
rebel  rejected  by  the  rabble,  a  savior  of  society  with 
out  even  the  ghost  of  a  chance  to  become  a  martyr,  a 
visionary  grown  wise,  an  enthusiast  at  last  awakened 
to  things  as  they  are,  an  idealist  knocked  out  by  cold, 
hard  facts — don't  you  think  it's  a  sad  reality?  I  — 
we  —  wanted  to  do  so  many  things  and — 
"  I  wanted  to  change  the  world,  and  the  world  has 
changed  me  so  that  I  am  beyond  recognition.That  's 


Keidansky  and  the  Social  Problem 

a  little  and  belittling  way  the  world  has  with  all  who 
wish  to  save  it.  We  —  my  comrades  and  I  — want 
ed  to  transform  this  earth  into  a  Heaven,  and  we 
came  near  going  to  —  the  other  place.  Pardon  me, 
madam,  but  some  of  the  fellows  actually  went  there, 
one  sent  me  his  regards  the  other  day.  He  is  at  court 
now,  working  for  the  king  of  the  ward  —  assistant 
chief  wire-puller,  or  something.  Good  salary;  hard 
ly  any  work  to  do.  Better  than  Socialism,  he  says, 
under  which  system  he  would,  at  least,  have  to  per 
form  a  few  hours'  work  a  day.  But  there  was  a  time 
when  he  would  walk  six  miles — he  had  to  walk  then 
—  to  hear  a  denunciation  of  the  present  political 
parties  and  the  evil  powers  that  be.  Now  he  would 
talk  six  miles  to  win  a  single  vote  for  them.  The 
others  who  have  gone  have  not  fared  so  badly  as 
he:  they  have  not  grown  so  wise,  have  remained 
poor,  and,  more  or  less — honest.  But  as  to  the  things 
that  might  have  been.  There  were  great  books  to 
be  written,  which  were  abandoned  because  —  oh, 
well,  it  is  so  much  bother  to  deal  with  publishers. 
There  was  a  powerful  educational  movement  to  be 
started  in  the  Ghetto,  which  has  also  been  relin 
quished  for  the  manifold  blessings  of  ignorance. 
"Why,  I  wanted  to  solve  the  social  problem,  and 
now  I  do  not  even  see  my  way  clear  to  do  that. 
You  see,  we  all  came  here  with  a  smattering  of 
Socialistic  ideas  and  Utopian  ideals.  We  brought 
them  over  from  Russia — the  land  of  the  knave 
and  the  home  of  the  slave  —  and  we  wanted  to  see 


Discourses  of  Kcidansky 

them  realized  in  this  country,  where  the  gigantic 
development  of  industry  and  the  trusts  were  illus 
trating  the  beautiful  possibilities  of  Socialism.  That 
idea  appealed  to  us  Jews,  at  least,  above  all  others. 
And  we  set  ourselves  with  great  zeal  to  the  task 
of  its  promulgation.  The  common  ownership  of  all 
the  means  of  production  and  distribution  of  wealth, 
every  member  of  society  contributing  to  the  work 
of  the  nation;  those  who  do  not  work,  neither  shall 
they  eat,  etc. — we  had  everything  down  fine — too 
fine.  If  we  were  asked,  who  shall  do  the  dirty  work 
under  Socialism,  we  answered,  the  bosses  of  the 
present  political  machines. 

"And  we  demonstrated  by  all  the  proofs  furnished 
us  by  our  leaders — at  the  rate  of  ten  cents  a  pam 
phlet —  how  the  great  change  was  inevitable  from 
Marx's  material  conception  of  history  and  our  own 
hysterical  conception  of  materialism.  The  rich  had 
not  as  yet  consented  to  the  equal  distribution  of  all 
wealth;  but  the  poor  had;  they  were  fast  coming 
our  way,  and  we  were  all  getting  ready  for  the  great 
change.  Oh,  when  a  fellow  gets  the  social  revolu 
tion  into  his  head  he  can  see  millions  of  proleta 
rians  marching  to  victory,  and  then  the  Cooperative 
Commonwealth  looms  up  big  before  him  in  all  its 
Bellamy  glory.  But  after  awhile,  and  a  few  gentle 
hints  in  the  form  of  hard  knocks — confound  it — 
comes  the  calm,  sober,  second  or  second-hand 
thought.  Socialism?  What  an  arch  bureaucracy, 
what  a  preposterous  attempt  to  harness  life  with  a 

4 


Keidansky  and  the  Social  Problem 

monstrous  system  of  rules,  regulations  and  restric 
tions  !  What  an  endless  chain  of  entangling  laws, 
what  an  appalling  monotony  of  order!  The  indi 
vidual  gagged,  bound  hand  and  foot  by  an  over 
whelming  mess  of  statutes ;  not  permitted  to  tell 
the  truth  unless  it  is  officially  recognized  as  truth 
by  the  State.  Thousands  of  laws  to  be  broken  every 
day  and  as  many  heads  to  be  mended.  Heaven  save 
us!  you  cry  out,  and  you  come  to  realize  that  it 
is  n't  because  "a  lot  of  contemptible  capitalists  have 
paid  him  for  it" — as  it  has  been  alleged  by  some 
of  us — that  Herbert  Spencer  has  declared  Social 
ism  to  be  the  coming  slavery.  Perhaps  Spencer 
was  n't  wrong,  after  all;  and  the  best  solution  of  the 
social  problem  you  had  becomes  a  terrible  problem, 
and  you  lay  it  on  the  table,  or  throw  it  into  the 
waste-basket. 

"Then  comes  communism,  as  preached  by  my 
friend  John  Most  and  comrade  Peter  Kropotkin; 
individualist  anarchism,  as  presented  by  Benjamin 
R.  Tucker  and  others.  Beautiful  theories  these  are, 
enchanting  studies ;  but,  alas,  only  theories,  so  vague, 
so  fantastic,  so  far  off,  so  dimly  distant,  so  elusive. 
And  the  problem  is  so  stubbornly  real,  so  disagree 
ably  near,  so  puzzlingly  capricious,  and  so  spiteful 
ly  independent  of  all  solutions,  that  —  oh,  well — I 
have  n't  as  yet  solved  the  social  problem,  and  I  don't, 
as  yet,  know  when  I  will;  but  perhaps  the  problem 
will  stay  long  enough,  until  I  get  ready  to  do  it." 
The  speaker  looked  touchingly  perplexed  as  he 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

continued:  "I  cannot  find  my  way  through  these 
things,  and  don't  know  the  way  out.  The  problem 
is  vexing  and  vast ;  the  solutions  various  and  volu 
minous.  The  solutions  are  in  themselves  highly 
problematic.  Our  doubts  are  endless,  our  igno 
rance  is  infinite.  Finality  is  the  most  fatal  folly. 
Nothing  is  certain  but  uncertainty;  nothing  is  con 
stant  but  change.  Even  the  dream  of  transforma 
tion  becomes  transformed.  Life  has  its  own  theories 
and  is  regardless  of  our  patented  plans.  The  logic 
of  events  makes  our  own  systems  illogical.  The 
wind  of  Time  blows  out  our  little  labelled  lanterns. 
Time  puts  all  our  wisdom  to  shame.  Life  is  so 
pitifully  brief,  and  the  problem  that  has  troubled 
the  ages  cannot  be  solved  in  a  day." 
"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?  "  I  in 
terrupted. 

"  Why,  I  have  decided  to  leave  the  social  problem 
unsolved  for  the  present,"  he  answered.  "  If  I  could 
spell  English  well  I  would  write  a  book  showing 
why  I  refuse  to  solve  it  for  the  present;  but  as  it 
is,  those  who  wish  to  know  what  I  write  will  have 
to  learn  Yiddish.  However,  from  what  I  know  of 
the  English  language,  I  like  it  immensely.  It  is  so 
rich,  so  big,  has  so  many  words;  a  splendid  means 
for  concealing  one's  thoughts.  And  the  English 
and  Americans,  who  master  it,  know  it  and  appre 
ciate  the  fad.  But  I  see  they  are  putting  the  lights 
out.  We  '11  have  to  leave  the  hall  now.  Good-night, 
good-night.  Pleased  to  have  met  you." 

6 


II 

He  Defends  the  Holy  Sabbath 

WE  are  so  happy  in  this  country  that  we 
must  celebrate  even  when  we  don't  want 
to,"  said  a  Hester  street  storekeeper, 
and  then  he  quoted  the  words  of  the  Psalms  in  the 
traditional  monotone  :  "And  they  who  led  us  cap 
tive  requireth  of  us  a  song." 

He  stood  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  dreary  and 
dilapidated  grocery  store.  It  was  Sunday  morning. 
The  chosen  people  of  old  who  have  elected  to  come 
to  the  chosen  country  of  to-day  moved  up  and  down 
in  large  numbers,  almost  crowding  the  street.  They 
stood  in  little  groups  idly,  and  conversed  loudly  in 
a  more  or  less  Americanized  Yiddish,  often  lapsing 
into  a  curious  English  of  their  own.  Their  dress  and 
outward  appearance  denoted  the  degrees  of  their 
Americanization  and  prosperity.  There  were  those 
who  live  in  the  Jewish  street,  or  in  the  immediate 
vicinity,  which  is  also  within  the  Ghetto,  and  others 
who,  after  spending  their  first  years  here,  have  now 
travelled  by  the  road  of  success  to  "  nice,  high- 
toned"  districts,  such  as  Allen  street  in  the  West 
End.  On  Sunday  they  all  come  down  there,  for  then 
you  can  meet  everybody,  all  the  "  Landsleute,"you 
can  hear  all  the  news,  and  there  was  a  time  when 
Sunday  was  the  liveliest  day  on  the  street.  Thus 
these  people  walked  up  and  down  the  thorough- 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

fare,  while  some  stood  in  small  gatherings  and  talked. 
Women  met,  chatted  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then 
took  half  an  hour  in  parting. 

All  the  stores  were  closed,  all  the  places  of  business 
deserted,  and  it  seemed  strange  and  incongruous  to 
see  all  these  people  out  on  the  street.  It  seemed  as 
if  the  people  were  there  for  no  purpose,  as  if  they 
had  nothing  to  do.  One  wondered,  at  first,  if  it  were 
a  holiday;  but  the  absence  of  even  a  suggestion  of 
the  spirit  of  Sabbath  soon  made  it  clear  that  there 
was  no  religious  meaning  in  this  day,  so  far  as  the 
Hebrew  people  were  concerned.  Aside  from  that, 
the  people  would  not  be  out  so  if  it  were  a  holiday. 
They  would  be  at  home,  observing  and  celebrating 
the  day.  It  appeared  as  if  their  idleness  was  forced 
upon  them ;  they  suggested  gatherings  of  workers 
whoare  out  on  a  strike,  waiting  for  settlement.  Upon 
investigation  the  stranger  found  that  this  was  an  en 
forced  idleness,  a  compulsory  holiday.  The  Chris 
tian  Sabbath  was  forced  by  law  upon  the  Jews,  who 
had  celebrated  their  Sabbath  the  day  before,  and 
they  could  not  begin  the  week's  work  until  their 
loving  neighbors  were  through.  And  this,  too,  was 
the  week  before  Passover,  the  busiest  season  in  the 
Ghetto. 

My  friend,  the  storekeeper,  stood  upon  the  side 
walk  in  front  of  his  emporium  and  continued  his 
plaint,  not  without  quaint  gestures : 
"  They  call  this  the  freest  country  on  earth,  and  yet 
here  we  have  been  compelled  to  close  up  our  stores 

8 


He  Defends  the  Holy  Sabbath 

two  days  in  the  week  for  the  whole  winter.  A  num 
ber  of  us  have  already  gone  out  of  business,  and  the 
Uppermost  only  knows  what  will  happen  with  the 
rest.  We  cannot  make  it  pay  in  five  days;  rent  is 
very  high,  profits  are  small,  and  around  here  times 
are  always  hard.  The  poor  people  who  trade  with 
us  only  know  prosperity  by  sight  or  hearsay. 
"  We  have  preserved  our  Sabbath  through  all  the 
persecutions  and  sufferings  which  we  have  endured 
in  the  past  centuries.  Our  Sabbath  is  as  dear  to  us 
as  life  itself,  and  now  it  is  endangered  by  the  laws  of 
this  free  land.  We  cannot  afford  to  close  our  stores 
on  both  Saturday  and  Sunday.  Sunday  used  to  be 
one  of  the  best  days  of  the  week  for  business.  It  is 
the  first  day  of  the  week  with  us.  It  is  the  day  after 
our  Sabbath,  when  every  household  needs  a  new 
supply  of  food.  It  is  also  the  day  on  which  our 
people  from  the  country,  having  a  day  off,  come  in 
to  buy  their  goods  —  that  is,  they  used  to  come  in 
when  we  were  permitted  to  keep  our  stores  open 
on  Sunday.  Now  all  is  changed,  and  the  business  is 
going  down  and  down.  We  will  not  keep  open  on 
Saturday,  and  the  police  won't  let  us  keep  open  on 
Sunday.  It  is  outrageous,  the  way  they  treat  us;  it 
is  scandalous,  I  say." 

Keidansky,  the  radical  of  the  Ghetto,  is  quite  a 
unique,  native  character.  He  is  the  young  man  who 
once  told  me  that  he  had  more  good  ideas  than  were 
good  for  him,  and  I  believe  now  that  he  was  right. 
I  met  him  one  day  in  one  of  his  resorts,  a  "kosh- 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

er  "  lunch  room  of  the  Jewish  district.  I  asked  him 
for  his  opinion  on  the  Sunday  question,  and  he  told 
me  what  follows  — among  other  things — over  a  few 
glasses  of  Russian  tea:  — 

"  So  far  as  I  'm  personally  concerned,  one  day  is  as 
good  as  another  for  a  Sabbath,  and  we  can't  have 
too  many  of  them.  Any  day  on  which  we  can  rest 
and  be  at  our  best,  is  a  holiday.  I  am  too  religious  to 
be  pious.  I  can  sanctify  as  many  days  as  I  can  cele 
brate.  The  new  conception  of c  kosher '  is  whatever 
is  wholesome,  digestible  and  tasteful.  To  be  really 
happy  is  to  be  holy,  and  those  who  have  lost  this 
world  will  not  be  entrusted  with  another.  I  hate 
uniformity,  and  it 's  very  tiresome  to  rest  when 
everybody  else  rests;  but  since  it  would  be  most 
convenient  to  suspend  business  and  activity  when 
the  majority  of  the  people  observe  their  Sabbath, 
since  the  Christians  do  not  want  to  rest  on  the  same 
day  that  the  Lord  rested,  and  decided  to  get  ahead 
of  God  and  repose  on  the  first  instead  of  the  seventh 
day,  why,  let  it  be  Sunday,  then — as  far  as  I  am 
concerned.  Convenience  is  the  first  step  to  happi 
ness,  and  tolerance  is  the  beginning  of  philosophy. 
There  is  nothing  intrinsically  sacred  in  any  day;  it 
is  only  an  artificial  measure  of  time,  and  time  is  only 
a  blank  space,  absolutely  worthless  unless  we  write 
upon  it  with  our  deeds.  All  days  are  made  holy  or 
unholy  by  what  we  do  in  them.  So,  you  see,  so  far 
as  I  am  concerned,  Saturday  or  Sunday,  any  day, 
will  do.  Personally  I  have  never  been  compelled  to 

10 


He  Defends  the  Holy  Sabbath 

close  up  my  store.  I  have  never  been  so  unfortunate 
as  to  own  a  store.  This,  however,  is  only  my  point 
of  view. 

"  One  of  the  most  immoral  things  I  know  of  is  to 
force  your  own  petty  brand  of  morality  upon  the 
lives  of  others,  and  I  can  hardly  conceive  of  any 
thing  more  irreligious  than  forcing  your  particular 
religion  upon  others.  To  respect  the  religion  of  your 
neighbors  is  a  deeply  religious  principle,  and  those 
who  have  no  religion  at  all  can  almost  make  up  for 
it  by  respecting  the  religion  of  others.  Religious 
liberty  is  one  of  the  most  precious  principles  of  our 
country,  is  it  not?  And  here  this  fundamental  prin 
ciple  is  rankly  violated  by  the  law,  or  rather  by  what 
I  think  must  be  a  silly  misinterpretation  of  the 
law.  There  are  thousands  of  Jews  encumbered  by 
and  compelled  to  rest  on,  if  not  to  observe,  a  Chris 
tian  Sabbath.  I  do  not  like  to  believe  with  some  of 
the  Zionists  that  the  seed  of  anti-Semitism  has  been 
sown  in  this  country  and  that  a  good  crop  will  soon 
be  up  to  encourage  the  restoration  of  Israel  to  the 
Turk's  Palestine.  I  am  rather  inclined  to  think  that 
this  idea  is  anti-Semitic.  But  certainly  the  stranger 
in  this  country  would  be  extremely  surprised  at  the 
way  the  Jews  are  treated  here  just  now  in  regard  to 
the  observance  of  Sabbath.  Who  is  to  blame  ?  The 
law  or  those  who  enforce  it?  Oh,  the  law.  But  per 
haps  our  people  now  suffer  the  consequences  of  hav 
ing  been  among  the  first  to  bring  laws  into  the  world. 
When  people  saw  that  the  world  was  too  good  they 

ii 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

began  to  make  laws,  and  ever  since  they  have  kept 
up  making  and  multiplying  them  faster  than  even 
the  lawmakers  can  break  them.  Why,  one  can  hardly 
walk  two  steps  before  he  finds  that  he  is  breaking  a 
useless  law  which  it  is  very  tempting  to  violate.  I  am 
not  so  radical  as  some  of  my  friends.  I  do  not  be 
lieve  that  all  the  stupidity  of  the  age  has  been  in 
carnated  into  our  laws.  A  great  deal  of  it  has  been 
left  in  our  customs,  traditions  and  superstitions; 
but  a  law  that  interferes  with  religious  liberty  in  a 
free  country  is  bad  enough. 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  just  exasperating  to  walk  through 
the  Ghetto  of  a  Sunday  now  and  see  all  the  places 
of  business  closed  up  and  all  the  public  resorts 
abandoned.  The  poor  housewives  of  the  Ghetto 
whose  cupboards  are  all  empty  and  who  need  so 
many  things  on  Saturday  night,  after  their  Sabbath, 
and  have  to  wait  until  Monday — it  is  a  great  hard 
ship  for  them.  I  tell  you  it 's  dead  wrong  to  force 
this  blue  law  upon  the  people.  The  Hebrew,  to 
whom  the  traditional  Sabbath  is  as  dear  as  life,  ought 
to  receive  due  consideration,  or  rather  the  right  to 
do  as  he  pleases,  in  so  far  as  he  does  not  harm  others. 
The  law  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  Sabbath, 
anyhow.  People  can  never  be  made  religious  by  law. 
If  you  are  going  to  write  about  it,  tell  the  whole 
story  and  show  how  ill-treated  we  are.  Perhaps  you 
can  convert  the  Christians  to  the  spirit  of  Chris 
tianity.  Let  the  voice  of  the  chosen  people  be 
heard!" 

12 


Ill 

Sometimes  He  is  a  Zionist 

WORD  flashed  across  the  cables  that  Dr. 
Theodore  Herzl  and  other  leaders  of  the 
Zionist  movement  had  held  a  favorable 
interview  with  the  Sultan  of  Turkey,  and  the  fol 
lowers  of  the  cause  —  the  restoration  of  Palestine 
to  the  Jews  —  were  all  in  a  flutter  of  gladness.  As 
it  was  interpreted  by  the  faithful,  the  vague,  mea 
gre  cablegram  meant  that  the  Sultan  was  willing, 
that  he  was  hard  up,  and  that  the  Holy  Land  was 
for  sale.  And  who  could  doubt  when  this  was  an 
nounced  by  the  New  York  Yiddish  dailies,  under 
four-column  headlines?  No  one  could  doubt  but 
the  jester.  He  said  that  this  only  proved  that  the 
Yiddish  papers  also  had  big  type  in  their  compos 
ing  rooms.  He  said  that  the  truth  about  a  certain 
movement  could  not  be  found  in  any  party  organ. 
In  fact,  if  one  wanted  the  absolute  truth  about  any 
thing  he  would  advise  him  to  go  home  and  sleep 
it  off. 

But  serious  and  sane  folk  will  ask  no  jester  for  ad 
vice.  The  jester  can  only  add  to  the  sadness  of  the 
nations ;  but  he  cannot  impair  the  faith  of  the  be 
lievers.  So  the  Zionists  were  rejoicing  while  their 
opponents  were  debating  in  the  lighter  vein,  and 
laughing  at  the  mistakes  of  the  so-called  new  Moses 
and  the  errors  of  his  followers. 

13 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

The  news  had  also  reached  Keidansky's  circle,  and 
the  question  was  taken  up  again  for  consideration. 
They  were  all  at  Zarling's  on  Leverett  street,  where 
the  "kosher"  eatables  are  inviting,  where  tea  is  Rus 
sian,  the  newspapers  Yiddish,  and  the  attendants 
members  of  one  industrious  family,  ranging  from 
several  bright  pupils  of  the  grammar  school  up. 
The  poet,  the  young  lawyer,  the  short-sighted  med 
ical  student  who  has  for  many  years  been  writing  a 
scientific  work,  the  Anarchist  orator  in  embryo,  the 
flower  vendor  and  undiscovered  inventor  of  an  in 
genious  self-lighting  lamp  and  a  wonderful  fuel- 
saving  stove  —  they  were  all  there,  and,  of  course, 
Keidansky  was  with  them.  They  all  sat  about  a  lit 
tle  round  wooden  table  in  a  corner  of  the  big  dusky 
store,  pouring  out  wisdom  and  drinking  tea.  The 
long  row  of  "kosher"  Vienna  wurst  hanging  over 
Zarling's  brass-railed  counter  were  mocking  and 
menacing  the  vegetarian  of  the  group  as  he  was 
munching  a  cheese  sandwich. 
They  were  all  heartily  opposed  to  Zionism.  Each 
one  had  the  solution  for  the  social  problem,  which 
would  also  settle  the  Jewish  question,  and  Keidan 
sky  said  that  it  was  highly  problematic  whether 
there  was  such  a  thing  as  a  Jewish  problem.  How 
ever,  they  all  had  plans  for  making  this  a  better 
world,  plans  which  the  Jews  were  eminently  fitted 
to  help  to  carry  out,  and  the  benefits  of  which  they 
would  reap  in  the  form  of  an  ideal  state  of  society, 
with  universal  brotherhood,  and  without  racial  ha- 


Sometimes  He  is  a  Zionist 

tred  and  anti-Semitism.  They  took  Zionism  se 
verely,  scathingly  to  task,  and  as  there  was  no  Zion 
ist  present  it  was  an  easy  victory.  The  Jewish  State 
was  nipped  in  the  bud,  or  rather  abolished  ere  its 
establishment.  The  poet  and  the  orator  sailed 
heavily  into  the  "  dubious  personality  of  Dr.  Max 
Nordau,"  one  of  the  leaders  of  the  movement,  and 
thus  again  avenged  themselves  on  the  man  who,  in 
his  gentle  booklet  on  "Degeneration,"  so  wantonly 
threw  so  much  mud  on  their  revolutionary  idols. 
Reference  was  made  to  the  demolishing  review  of 
the  Doctor's  book  by  the  only  and  original  G.  Ber 
nard  Shaw,  and  Whitman  and  Wagner  and  the  oth 
ers  were  saved. 

Keidansky  listened  silently  to  all  that  passed,  looked 
into  a  book  and  sipped  his  tea.  If  the  conversation 
was  not  good  he  could  find  something  in  his  book, 
and  if  the  book  was  not  interesting  he  could  at  least 
enjoy  his  tea.  So  he  once  said  when  told  that  he  was 
not  attentive  and  not  true  to  the  spirit  of"  the  order 
of  midnight  tea-drinkers." 

Everybody  had  spoken,  and  I  turned  to  Keidansky 
for  a  word.  "  Sometimes,"  he  said,  "  I  am  Zionist, 
and  all  longings  leave  me  and  I  yearn  for  naught 
but  the  realization  of  the  old,  long-cherished,  holy 
dream  that  our  people  have  carried  along  with  them 
and  fondly  caressed  through  their  cruel  exiles  of  the 
ages — the  restoration  of  our  never-to-be-forgotten 
home,  Palestine.  The  passion  for  the  race  returns, 
the  old  feeling  of  national  pride  and  patriotism 

'5 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

comes  back  and  takes  its  old  place,  the  conscious 
ness  of  Israel  awakens  within  me,  and  I  am  com 
pletely  swayed  by  the  mastering  desire  to  see  Judea 
'emancipated,  regenerated  and  redeemed/ 
"  I  feel  again  the  unity  I  have  forgotten.  The  old 
Messianic  hope  looms  up  big  before  me.  The 
Heimweb  of  the  long-lost  wanderer,  the  grief- 
stricken,  menaced  nomad  takes  possession  of  me. 
I  feel  the  terrible  danger  of  dissolution:  it  is  so  bit 
ter  to  stare  destruction  in  the  face,  to  contemplate 
annihilation  of  so  long  and  so  miraculous  an  exist 
ence.  I  feel  that  there  is  no  place  like  his  old  home. 
The  homeless  Jew  must  return  to  Palestine.  The 
big  world  is  too  small.  It  has  no  room  for  him. 
Good  or  bad,  he  is  always  offensive,  and  he  is  ex 
alted  only  to  be  cast  down  into  an  abyss  of  misery. 
Civilization  is  not  even  civil,  and  it  has  no  hospi 
tality  for  its  earliest  light-bearer.  The  world  is  a 
wretched  ingrate.  We  have  given  everything,  includ 
ing  the  means  of  future  salvation;  we  receive  noth 
ing  but  calumny,  and  are  doomed  to  everlasting 
damnation. ( We  have  given  you  your  religion/  we 
say  to  the  Christians. '  That  's  nothing/  they  answer ; 
cit  has  not  affected  us  in  the  least/  And  they  prove 
it.  They  keep  on  baiting  and  persecuting  and  kill 
ing  their  neighbours,  not  as  themselves.  What  must 
we  do?  Get  back  our  old  home,  though  we  have  to 
pay  for  it.  There,  at  least,  will  we  find  ca  crust  of 
bread  and  a  corner  to  sleep  in/ 
"  We  must  have  a  common  cause,  an  object  of  unity, 

16 


Sometimes  He  is  a  Zionist 

a  centre  of  gravity,  in  order  to  survive  as  a  people, 
and  this  is  what  we  can  have  in  the  proposed  Jewish 
State. 

"And  what  an  inspiring  picture  it  will  be  of  Israel, 
bruised  and  bleeding  from  the  travail  of  his  long, 
futile  travels,  at  last  straightening  up  his  back  and 
returning  home  to  rebuild  his  national  life  and  his 
temple  in  Palestine.  There  he  will  create  an  ideal  re 
public,  fashioned  after  the  teachings  of  the  prophets 
and  the  lessons  he  has  received  from  the  teachers  of 
the  nations — a  republic  that  will  teach  the  world 
justice  and  righteousness.  cAnd  from  Zion  shall 
issue  the  law,  and  the  word  of  God  shall  go  forth 
from  Jerusalem,'  and  our  poets  to  come  shall  sing 
new  psalms  to  God  on  the  banks  of  the  Jordan,  in 
the  shades  of  Lebanon  and  in  the  beautiful  gardens 
of  Sharon  and  Carmel.  I  have  never  been  there,  and 
though  I  have  gone  through  life  without  a  geogra 
phy,  yet  I  seem  to  remember  all  these  places.  The 
grand,  vigorous  Hebrew  language  shall  come  to  life 
again  and  we  shall  have  a  glorious  literature  of  Is 
rael's  resurrection.  Ah,  how  beautiful  the  vision 
that  looms  up  as  I  contemplate  these  things!  And 
then—" 

Keidansky  ceased  speaking,  paused,  and  asked  for 
another  glass  of  tea. 
"And  then?"  I  asked. 

"Then,"  he  continued,  "the  mood  passes,  the  feel 
ing  alters,  the  picture  that  a  fleeting  fancy  has  thrown 
upon  the  canvas  of  my  view,  fades,  a  change  comes 

17 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

over  the  spirit  of  my  dream.  I  remember  that  I  am  no 
longer  the  pious  little  boy  praying  in  the  synagogue 
of  Keidan,  ca  year  hence  in  Jerusalem/  The  greater 
vision  appears  before  me,  the  larger  ideal  comes 
back,  and  Keidansky  is  himself  again.  Sometimes  I 
am  a  Zionist,  but  only  sometimes.  The  rest  of  the 
time  I  am  as  strongly  opposed  to  it  as  any  of  you,  be 
cause  with  all  my  imputed  universalism  I  have  great 
hopes  for  my  people,  and  because  I  have  marked  out 
a  greater  role  for  Israel  to  play  in  the  history  of  the 
future  than  being  a  mere  little  bee  building  a  little 
hive  in  a  tiny  obscure  corner  of  the  globe." 
Here  the  medical  student  protested  that  a  man  can 
not  be  both  for  and  against  an  idea  at  the  same  time, 
that  those  who  are  not  with  us  are  wrong  and  against 
us,  and  that  Keidansky  is  a  "long  distance  off" — 
for  he  said,"  scientifically  analyzed" — 
"  Scientifically  analyzed,  you  are  a  bore/'  Keidan 
sky  broke  forth  infuriated,  "and  don't  interrupt  me 
when  I  am  solving  problems  and  making  history. 
Be  consistent,  boys,  and  do  not  ask  me  to  be  so. 
Give  me,  at  least,  the  right  that  you  grant  to  a  char 
acter  in  ficlion,  the  right  to  be  irrational,  illogical, 
and,  above  all,  superbly  inconsistent.  I  am  a  char 
acter  in  life  and  nothing  is  so  fictitious.  At  times,  I 
want  to  be  with  all,  feel  with  all,  believe  with  all,  see 
the  beauties  of  all  ideals,  and  also  point  out  the  great 
fad  about  them  —  that  they  are  all  fatal  —  and  yet 
that  to  be  without  ideals  is  baneful  and  deadly.  I 
cannot  be  partial,  and  that  is  why  they  expelled  me 

18 


Sometimes  He  is  a  Zionist 

from  DeLeon's  Socialist  Labor  party.  Partiality  is 
destructive  to  art,  and  I  might  have  been  an  artist, 
if  I  had  had  the  patience  and  self-abnegation  and  a 
lot  of  other  requisites  and  things. 
"  Bu.t  to  return  to  the  larger  vision,  which  eclipses 
the  dreamlet  of  Zionism.  The  Jew  must  not  be  rele 
gated  to  an  obscure  corner  of  the  world,  to  a  little 
platform  whereupon  he  will  recite  a  piece  in  an  un 
known  tongue.  I  want  a  big  stage  for  him  —  the 
world.  I  want  a  great  play  for  him  —  all  its  multi 
tudinous  activities.  For  he  is  a  wonderful  actor.  He 
has  versatility,  illusion,  imagination  and  dramatic 
power.  It  is  an  inspiring  part  he  plays  in  the  world- 
drama.  So  let  the  play  go  on,  and  do  not  ask  him  to 
waste  his  energies  and  bargain  with  the  Sultan  for  a 
bit  of  barren  land  that  has  been  taken  from  him  so 
long  ago.  He  has  a  bigger  task  to  perform,  a  larger 
mission  to  fulfil. 

"  He  must  live  among  the  nations  and  help  them 
in  their  upward  struggle  for  a  higher  civilization  and 
a  nobler  life.  If  there  are  evils  to  be  abolished  he  will 
help  abolish  them,  and  if  there  are  dire  problems, 
why,  he  has  brains,  which  he  loans  more  often  than 
money.  And  this  is  the  spectacle  that  I  gloat  over 
and  glory  in  seeing :  Israel  among  the  nations,  the 
saviour  and  the  outcast,  the  redeemer  and  the  re 
jected,  the  revered  teacher  and  truant  student,  the 
honoured  guest  and  persecuted  resident,  helping  na 
tions  to  make  their  histories,  here  and  there,  writ 
ing  great  words  in  them,  ministering  to  their  arts 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

and  helping  to  humanize  humanity.  To  be  perse 
cuted  and  oppressed  by  the  nations  is  inconvenient 
and  annoying,  but  to  make  music,  paint  pictures, 
write  books,  sing  songs,  mould  statues  for  them — 
how  superb !  Ah,  what  a  tragedy  to  be  a  Jew,  and 
yet,  how  glorious !  The  nations  need  the  Jew  and 
he  must  not  desert  them  in  their  hour  of  need,  and 
if  he  is  true  to  his  best  self  and  keeps  on  growing  he 
will  not  die  and  vanish  as  a  people.  In  any  case  't  is 
nobler  to  die  for  a  good  cause  than  to  live  in  impo 
tence.  So  let  the  Jew  remain,  with  whatever  nation 
he  abides,  and  as  a  good  citizen  help  it  grow  great 
and  good,  and  show  that  Ibsen  was  right  when  he 
called  us  the  aristocracy  of  the  race.  Let  not,  I  say 
to  the  Zionists,  the  Jew  be  like  the  little  boy  who 
runs  away  from  school  after  he  receives  a  thrashing 
and  before  he  has  taught  his  teacher  a  lesson,  To 
sacrifice  for  Dr.  Herzl's  scheme  our  vast  opportu 
nities  in  the  world,  which  owes  us  so  much,  and  to 
which  we  are  so  indebted,  would  be  selling  our  birth 
right  for  a  mess  of  pottage.  So  let  us  remain.  We  can 
do  so  much  in  so  many  countries  with  the  teachings 
and  spirit  of  Judaism.  We,  too,  are  frail  and  have 
many  faults,  but  we  can  improve  where  there  's  lots 
of  room  and  plenty  of  opportunities. 
cc  Life  is  a  melodrama,  and  in  the  latter  acts  the  long- 
lost  brothers,  Jew  and  Christian,  who  have  for  so 
long  waged  war  against  each  other,  will  recognize, 
understand  each  another,  and  perhaps,  things  will 
end  happily,  after  all. 

20 


Sometimes  He  is  a  Zionist 

<f  Meanwhile  we  will  forgive  France  for  the  Drey 
fus  affair,  because  of  her  perfect  prose  and  beautiful 
poetry.  I  will  even  forgive  Captain  Dreyfus  for 
having  been  such  a  bore,  if  he  will  stop  writing 
books.  Let  the  Jews  remain  in  Russia  instead  of 
going  to  Palestine,  for  think  of  the  love  of  freedom 
that  tyranny  engenders  !  Think  how  good  all  our 
oppressions  have  been  in  that  they  made  us  love 
liberty  and  truth.  Think  what  a  chance  to  shed 
blood  for  freedom  there  will  yet  be  in  Russia.  Our 
people  should  remain  there.  Things  are  changing. 
What  a  fine  literature  it  is  producing,  and  how  no 
ble  Russia  is — underground. 
"  Away  with  your  petty  neutral  little  State,  I  say 
to  the  Zionist;  the  State  to  be  bought  on  the  in 
stalment  plan  from  the  Sultan,  to  be  built  on  the 
soil  of  superstition,  where  the  Jews  will  go  back  to 
their  traditional  customs  and  fall  asleep.  The  land  is 
barren  and  sterile,  and  I  do  not  believe  in  starvation, 
even  on  holy  land.  Even  the  orthodox  must  have  a 
religion ;  but  they  will  never  acquire  it  in  Palestine. 
They  will  cling  to  the  old.  They  will  not  progress. 
The  Bible — and  I  bow  my  head  in  reverence  for 
that  great  work  of  fiction  —  will  never  be  edited  and 
revised  as  it  ought  to  be,  in  Palestine.  Judaism  will 
not  grow  in  Palestine.  The  Jews  will  cling  to  the 
letter,  and  the  spirit  of  it  will  starve.  God  save  the 
Jews  from  Palestine.  Judaism  there  will  not  grow ; 
it  will  stagnate  and  die.  The  Jews  must  live  among 
the  destroying  forces  of  civilization.  It  is  only  when 

21 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

they  outgrow  their  obnoxious  superstitions  and 
down-dragging  traditions  that  they  become  great." 
The  speaker  waxed  warm ;  his  eyes  flashed  with  en 
thusiasm,  his  voice  grew  loud. 
"  I  want  none  of  the  Jewish  State,"  he  said.  "  The 
whole  world  is  holy  land.  Wherever  there  are  good, 
honest  people  is  holy  land,  and  from  every  corner 
of  the  earth  shall  issue  the  law,  and  the  word  of  God 
shall  go  forth  from  every  place,  including  my  garret. 
Give  us  a  big  stage,  give  us  the  world,  give  us  the 
universe,  and  let  me  watch  it  from  its  centre  —  my 
garret  at  3  Birmingham  Alley;  let  me  watch  the 
great  and  glorious  play  with  Israel's  heroic  part  in 
all  the  activities  and  growth  and  progress  of  the 
world,  and  I  will  c  thank  whatever  gods  there  be/ 
And  this  is  my  larger  dream ;  a  better,  more  humane 
world,  created  by  the  brotherhood  of  men,  with  Is 
rael  as  peacemaker  and  fraternizer.  Amen/' 


IV 

Art  for  Tolstoy's  Sake 

IT  was  at  one  of  a  series  of  lectures  given  under 
the  auspices  of  the  Social  Science  Circle  during 
the  winter  season.  The  audience  which  assem 
bled  in  the  gloomy  little  hall  on  the  third  floor  of 
an  East  Broadway  building  was  rather  small  in  size. 
In  announcing  the  lecture  no  rewards  had  been  of 
fered  to  those  who  would  come  to  listen  to  it,  as 
often  seemed  necessary ;  the  speaker  of  the  evening 
was  only  a  member  of  the  club,  who  worked  for  his 
ideas,  and  not  an  eminent  lecturer  who  lived  on  his 
reputation  and  whose  name  would  "  draw  a  crowd." 
The  majority  of  young  men  and  women  of  the 
Ghetto  would  not  think  of  wasting  an  evening  on 
wisdom;  they  would  commit  no  such  folly,  when 
they  could  have  "  such  a  lovely  time  "  at  the  near-by 
dancing  schools.  Still,  the  few  and  the  faithful  were 
all  present,  and  those  who  were  thirsting  for  knowl 
edge  came  to  be  saturated.  Max  Lubinsky  was  the 
speaker,  and  his  theme,"  Tolstoy's  Theory  of  Art," 
was  teeming  with  vital  import. 
Keidansky,  as  a  member  of  the  committee  in  charge 
of  the  literary  work  of  the  circle,  acted  as  chairman 
of  the  meeting.  In  introducing  the  speaker  he  made 
a  few  remarks,  somewhat  as  follows : 
"  Tolstoy  has  theories  of  art.  Personally  I  am  rather 
sorry  for  this,  because  if  he  did  not  have  them  he 

23 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

would  be  a  greater  artist.  Even  as  theories  of  life 
often  mar  existence,  so  theories  of  art  impair  the 
artist.  Admitting  that  art  with  a  purpose  can  help 
the  world,  it  is  certain  that  art  for  its  own  sweet  sake 
can  create  and  re-create  worlds.  After  he  had  con 
tributed  some  of  the  greatest  works  of  art  to  the  liter 
ature  of  Russia,  Tolstoy  decided  to  find  out  just  what 
art  was.  During  his  investigations,  which  lasted  many 
years,  he  found  that  the  art  of  the  world  was  in  great 
part  lazy,  unemployed,  corrupt,  suffering  from  en 
nui,  and  ministering  to  the  debauched,  poor  rich 
people,  whom  the  poor  man  ever  envies;  he  decided 
that  art  should  become  useful  and  go  to  work,  and 
he  gave  it  an  employment — the  promulgation  of 
his  ideas  of  social  regeneration. 
"Once,  Tolstoy  tells  us,  art  was  primitive  and  simple 
and  pious,  and  it  was  good  art  and  true ;  but  during 
the  Middle  Ages,  when  the  upper  class  and  the  no 
bility  became  sceptical  and  pessimistic,  and  could 
find  no  more  consolation  in  religion,  art  became  di 
vorced  from  the  church,  because  they  took  it  up  as 
an  amusement  and  study.  And  ever  since  art  got  into 
such  bad  company — among  people  of  culture  and 
those  who  understand  it,  who  cherished  all  its  won 
derful  enfoldments  and  caressed  all  its  capricious 
moods — ever  since  art  got  into  such  bad  company, 
it  became  as  beautiful  as  sin,  and  so  complex,  mystic 
and  ambiguous  that  even  the  Russian  muzbik  or  peas 
ant  cannot  understand  it.  And  so  —  as  it  seems  to 
me — argues  Tolstoy,  the  facl  that  the  muzbik  cannot 

24 


Art  for  Tolstoy  s  Sake 

appreciate  c  Tannha'user '  proves  conclusively  that 
Wagner  never  wrote  any  real  music.  Then,  the  dear 
old  master  delves  deeply  into  all  definitions,  origins 
and  explanations  of  art.  He  finds  no  designation, 
no  description  that  satisfies  him;  they  all  hinge  on 
and  culminate  in  beauty  — in  the  production  and  re 
production  of  beauty  that  is  in  life,  in  nature,  in  the 
worlds  within  us  and  without ;  and  Tolstoy  is  rather 
shy  at  mere  beauty,  and  thinks  it  a  temptress,  a  siren 
and  a  song ;  besides,  beauty,  he  says,  changes  and 
depends  on  taste,  and  taste  varies,  and  as  all  these 
definitions  are  too  far-fetched  and  vague,  he  finds 
one  that  is  still  more  indefinite.  Art  is  the  communi 
cation  of  feeling,  the  expression  of  the  religious 
consciousness.  Of  course  it  is  that,  but  first  and 
foremost  it  must  have  the  sterling  qualities  of  art 
in  form  and  matter. 

"Tolstoy,  however,  would  make  this  the  chief  basis 
and  standard  of  art,  for  his  would  be  an  art  that 
would  detract  men's  minds  from  mere  beauty,  that 
would  make  them  helplessly  pious,  that  would  unite 
mankind,  make  life  as  monotonous  as  possible,  and 
convert  humanity  to  Christian  Anarchism. 
"  Every  book,  picture,  statue  and  composition  of 
music  should  be  degradingly  moral.  And  the  ques 
tion  arises,  what  does  he  mean  by  religious  con 
sciousness?  Walt  Whitman  expressed  his  religious 
consciousness  in  a  manner  that  shocked  the  world, 
and  it  is  notat  all  pleasing  toTolstoy,and  yet  Whit 
man  was  the  most  reliious  man  that  lived  in  cen- 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

turies.  The  Abbe  Prevost  wrote  "  Manon  Lescaut " 
to  express  his  religious  consciousness,  and  Robert 
Ingersoll  delivered  his  leclures  to  do  the  same;  to 
express  their  religious  consciousness,  great  sculptors 
mould  nude  figures  of  women,  out  of  worship  of  the 
divine  beauty  of  the  human  form;  and  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi  expresses  the  spiritual  emotion  in  quite  a  dif 
ferent  manner.  But  no,  Tolstoy  has  a  certain  kind  of 
religious  consciousness  in  mind,  and  this  should  be 
expressed  by  all  art  and  all  artists  in  a  uniform  mode 
until  we  have  gone  back  to  primitive  conditions. 
"  I  yield  to  no  one  in  my  admiration  of  the  grand 
old  man  of  Russia.  He  is  one  of  the  noblest  souls 
that  ever  walked  this  earth,  and  as  an  artist,  when  he 
is  at  his  best  and  does  not  preach,  he  is  superb;  there 
are  few  like  him.  But  when  he  begins  to  philoso 
phize  and  moralize,  few  can  rise  to  the  height  of  ab 
surdity  as  quickly  as  he  can.  As  it  seems  to  me, 
Tolstoy's  position  is  something  like  this: 
"'Christianity  is  a  colossal  failure/  he  says,  cso  let 
us  all  become  Christians.  Our  civilization  is  dread 
fully  slow  in  its  advance ;  it  has  not  as  yet  outgrown 
its  barbaric  primitiveness,  so  let  us  all  go  back  to 
barbarism.  All  government  is  evil,  so  let  us  be  gov 
erned  solely  by  the  teachings  of  a  man  who  lived 
nearly  two  thousand  years  ago,  a  man  who  was  pure 
and  who  made  no  study  of  the  wicked  conditions  of 
our  time.  It  is  only  thus  that  we  can  become  free  — 
by  a  circumlocutory  process  of  self-abnegation,  self- 
sacrifice  and  self-annihilation.  Let  us  become  slaves 

26 


Art  for  Tolstoy  s  Sake 

of  the  theory  of  minding  our  neighbors'  business  and 
we  will  be  free.  The  power  of  will  is  the  greatest 
thing  in  the  world ;  he  who  follows  his  free  will  be 
comes  a  slave  and  is  doomed  to  damnation.  Let  us 
be  ourselves ;  let  us  stifle  our  feelings,  become  al 
truists  and  get  away  from  ourselves.  All  govern 
ment  is  tyranny;  let  us  abolish  all  government, 
adopt  a  rigid,  ancient,  mystic  morality,  and  let  every 
one  become  his  own  tyrant.  Our  morality  is  a  failure ; 
it  has  produced  a  false  art ;  therefore  we  must  have 
a  true  art  which  will  promulgate  our  morality.  Art 
that  exists  for  mere  beauty  cannot  be  understood  by 
the  great  masses,  therefore  let  us  have  an  art  for  the 
masses  which  will  be  beautiful.  Our  Christianity  is 
a  failure,  therefore  we  must  convert  art  to  Christi 
anity  and  send  it  forth  as  a  missionary  of  the  Gos 
pels  as  I  interpret  them/  This,  as  I  see  it,  is  the 
queer  position  of  Tolstoy,  but  his  theories  are  ex 
ceedingly  well-meant  and  highly  interesting,  and  I 
am  glad  that  we  are  to  have  a  lecture  this  evening 
onTolstoy's  theories  of  art  by  one  who  is  a  thorough 
student  of  Tolstoy  and  to  whom  the  master's  teach 
ings  are  near  and  dear. 

"  I  must  not  forget  that  I  am  not  the  speaker  of  the 
evening ;  I  merely  wanted  to  hint  at  the  importance 
of  the  subject  so  that  you  may  give  it  due  attention, 
but  I  must  not  transgress  upon  the  time  of  the  lec 
turer,  for  the  way  of  the  transgressor,  according  to 
Tolstoy  and  others,  is  said  to  be  hard.  Besides,  the 
chairman  is  not  supposed  to  have  any  opinions;  his 

27 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

duty  is  only  to  eulogize  the  speaker  —  in  a  merci 
less  manner — and  to  introduce  him  with  a  few  ap 
propriate,  well-chosen  and  ill-fated  remarks.  The 
chairman  at  best  is  only  a  relic  of  barbarism,  and 
should  be  abolished." 

And  Keidansky  at  last  introduced  the  speaker,  his 
friend,  Max  Lubinsky,  who,  after  treating  his  audi 
ence  to  a  bit  of  satire  at  the  expense  of  "the  elo 
quent  and  loquacious  chairman,"  proceeded  to  give 
a  simple,  sympathetic  and  modest  interpretation  of 
Tolstoy's  "What  is  Art?"  illustrating  his  talk  with 
copious  reading  from  the  book,  and  now  and  then 
referring  to  his  written  notes.  It  was  a  comprehen 
sive  review  of  Tolstoy's  book  he  gave,  and  as  to  his 
own  ideas  on  art  he  did  not  sufficiently  differ  from 
Tolstoy  to  have  a  formidable  opinion  on  the  matter, 
and  he  had  too  much  reverence  for  the  great  Russian 
to  voice  it  just  then.  The  presiding  officer  did  not 
close  the  meeting  without  again  remarking  that "  art 
with  a  purpose  is  art  with  an  impediment,"  and  that 
"  the  only  excuse  of  art  is  its  uselessness."  From 
what  I  overheard  after  the  meeting  I  observed  that 
there  was  a  strong  anti-Keidansky  feeling  in  the 
gathering.  He  had  evidently  gone  too  far,  had  voiced 
his  notions  too  freely,  and  had  no  right  to  take  up 
so  much  time  in  speaking.  Besides,  most  of  those 
present  were  social  reformers,  tremendously  in 
earnest,  and  they  felt,  more  or  less,  that  Tolstoy 
was  right;  that  art  was  only  great  as  an  advocate. 
As  we  were  walking  together,  homeward  bound,  a 

28 


v 


Art  for  Tolstoy  s  Sake 

little  later,  I  said :  "  My  dear  fellow,  you  Ve  got 
yourself  into  trouble.  They  are  all  up  in  arms 
against  you  and  your  awful  heresies.  You  have  al 
most  delivered  the  ledure  of  the  evening  yourself, 
and  the  circle  won't  stand  for  it.  Next  thing  you 
know  you'll  be  court-martialed." 
"  I  almost  expected  that  this  would  happen,"  said 
Keidansky,  "  but  I  had  to  say  what  I  did.  It  was  an 
imperative  duty.  I  am  only  sorry  that  I  forgot  a  few 
more  things  I  had  on  my  mind  to  say.  Audiences 
confuse  me  and  make  me  forget  my  best  points.  I 
suppose  they  will  call  a  special  meeting  and  pass 
resolutions  to  condemn  me  and  my  proceedings. 
But  this  will  only  prove  the  superiority  of  individ 
uals  over  society.  Before  a  society  can  pass  resolu 
tions,  the  individual  acts.  I  suppose  they'll  say  lots 
of  things  now.  They  will  say  I  was  trying  to  make 
epigrams.  Epigrams  are  always  hateful — to  those 
who  cannot  make  a  point  in  a  volume.  They  will  say 
I  was  uttering  platitudes.  After  you  convince  people 
that  there  are  such  things  as  platitudes  in  the  world, 
they  begin  to  find  them  in  everything  you  say.  I 
once  had  an  uncle  (he  is  still  living,  only  he  is  very 
rich,  and  so  I  disowned  him),  and  at  one  time  I  ex 
plained  to  him  the  theory  of  our  moving  along  the 
lines  of  least  resistance.  A  short  while  after  that  we 
had  a  very  intimate  interview  and  my  uncle  told  me 
that  I  was  a  lazy,  good-for-nothing  visionary;  that 
I  did  not  want  to  do  anything,  and  moved  along  the 
lines  of  least  resistance. 

29 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

"  I  had  to  say  what  I  did  because  I  did  not  want  the 
people  to  go  off  with  such  crude  and  false  concep 
tions  of  art.  I  knew  that  Lubinsky  would  not  dare 
to  differ  from  Tolstoy.  He  adores  the  old  man.  So 
do  I,  but  I  cannot  afford  to  give  up  my  mind  to  any 
one — not  until  I  become  a  respectable  member  of 
the  synagogue,  and  join  a  number  of  secret  orders. 
Then  it  does  not  matter.  The  worst  thing  about  a 
charming,  noble  personality  is  that  our  admiration 
for  it  gets  the  better  of  our  reasoning  power  and  we 
become  ready  to  follow  it  in  all  its  follies.  This  is  the 
regrettable  influence  that  Tolstoy  has  exerted  upon 
Lubinsky.  Thus  our  emancipators  enslave  us.  'Be 
yourself/  says  Emerson,  and  you  become  an  Emer 
sonian. 

"  But  there  is  something  else  I  wanted  to  say  on  this 
question  of  art.  We  Jews  anticipated  and  lived  in 
perfect  accord  with  Tolstoy's  theory  of  art — that 
art  must  be  religious  and  must  be  burdened  with  a 
message,  or  a  purpose  —  and  the  result  is  that  we 
have  no  fine  arts  of  our  own,  except  poetry,  which 
has  more  sighs  and  sobs  and  tears  and  piety  than 
music  and  beauty.  Of  course,  the  reason  for  the  ab 
sence  of  art  among  us  is  one  of  the  commandments, 
which  forbids  the  making  of  images,  and  oh,  I  cannot 
tell  you  how  sorry  I  am  that  this  commandment  was 
ever  observed.  I  do  not  object  so  much  to  the  other 
nine  commandments,  but  for  this  one  I  can  never  for 
give  my  people.  And  here,  by  the  way,  is  an  example 
of  what  the  religious  consciousness  can  do  for  art. 

30 


Art  for  Tolstoy  s  Sake 

"There  is  a  religious  consciousness  which  makes 
people  unconscious  of  religion.  cThe  piety  of  art  is 
the  quest  of  the  unattainable/  and  the  more  freedom 
you  give  it  from  missions  the  greater  the  mission  it 
will  fulfil.  One  more  answer  to  the  theory  of  art  for 
Tolstoy's  sake:  Here  is  a  fable  that  occurred  to  me 
as  I  was  listening  to  the  lecture.  I  have  no  time  to 
elaborate  and  polish  it,  but  I  give  you  the  right  to 
plagiarize  it. 

"{You  must  pardon  me/  said  Art  to  Beauty,  one 
day,  £if  I  do  not  pay  so  much  attention  to  you  as  I 
used  to,  but  this  is  a  world  of  evils  and  problems, 
and  I  will  have  to  leave  you  for  awhile  and  go  forth 
and  help  to  make  a  better,  juster  system  of  so 
ciety/  And  Art  went  forth  to  fight  the  battle  of  the 
poor  and  the  oppressed,  and  Beauty  waited  wistfully 
for  its  return,  alone  and  deserted,withered  and  faded. 
After  many  years  Beauty  went  in  quest  of  her  lost 
lover,Art,who  had  not  returned,  and  she  came  upon 
a  field  of  battle,  and  there,  transformed  into  rebel 
warrior,  was  her  lost  lover,  Art.  And  even  as  she 
gazed,  a  shot  was  fired  from  the  enemy,  and  it  pierced 
the  heart  of  Art,  and  he  lay  prostrate  and  dead  be 
fore  her." 


"Three  Stages  of  the  Game" 

WE  had  been  speaking  of  "  the  only  law  that 
never  changes "  —  the  law  of  change:  of 
the  glorious  ascent  of  the  youthful  non 
conformist,  and  of  the  sad  descent  of  the  older  and 
wiser  compromiser  — a  theme,  by  the  way,  as  old  as 
age  and  yet  as  new  as  youth.  We  all  had  friends  we 
once  looked  up  to  and  now  looked  down  upon,  and 
we  indulged  in  a  few  reminiscences.  Every  army  had 
its  deserters,  every  cause  its  traitors,  and  the  cru 
saders  who  carried  the  red  flag  also  changed  their 
minds,  lost  heart  and  ran  home. 
"Oh,  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt.  Even  the  vegeta 
rians  cannot  forget  them,"  remarked  my  compan 
ion.  "  They  who  led  the  strikes  among  the  sweat 
shop  workers  in  the  course  of  time  became  heartless 
capitalist  bosses;  and  there  were  Anarchists,  who 
wanted  to  abolish  all  laws,  who  became  lawyers  and 
went  into  politics.  One  by  one  many  of  the  promis 
ing  young  men  of  the  Ghetto  broke  their  promises 
and  left  the  uplifting  movements  they  brought  into 
existence.  Some  died,  some  married  for  love  of 
money,  some  took  wives  unto  themselves,  some  be 
came  lawyers  and  doctors,  some  dentists,  some  wire 
pullers,  some  went  into  politics,  and  some  moved 
to  Brooklyn.  Compromise?  They  all  hated  that 
word  and  then  —  they  compromised. 

33 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

"  Recently  I  have  been  thinking  of  three  particular 
stages  of  the  game  —  this  grim  and  gruesome  little 
game  called  life,"  said  Keidansky.  "The  first  is 
when  we  sternly  demand  the  truth,  the  second 
when  we  ask  for  justice,  and  the  third  —  when  we 
beg  for  mercy  — 

"  There  you  are  with  your  eternal  questions.  It  was 
Zolotkoffwho  once  called  the  Jew,  bent  and  bowed 
by  his  sorrows  and  fearful  of  the  future  —  it  was  he 
who  called  the  Jew  a  living  interrogation  point.  You 
just  reminded  me  of  the  simile.  But  no ;  I  cannot 
tell  you  at  which  of  the  three  stages  I  have  arrived. 
I  am  at  all  and  at  none.  What  I  really  want  I  never 
ask  for,  because  I  hardly  know  what  it  is,  and  can 
not  formulate  the  demand.  If  I  knew  just  what  they 
were,  perhaps  I  would  n't  want  these  things.  Yet 
sometimes  I  think  if  I  could  play,  if  I  could  play 
the  violin,  I  would  express  these  starved  longings 
and  stifled  yearnings.  I  could  not  only  tell,  but  in 
the  expression  perhaps  find  what  I  want.  In  words 
I  cannot  do  it;  they  are  so  formal,  definite,  rough. 
The  other  day  my  friend,  the  violinist,  came  and 
played  for  me. c  I  '11  tell  you  a  story/  he  said,  and  he 
took  his  violin  and  played  —  a  beautiful,  thrilling 
story.  The  Unknowable  was  revealed  for  a  moment ; 
and  it  occurred  to  me  then  that  if  I  could  play,  I, 
too,  might  perform  the  miracle  of  expression,  which 
proves  the  divinity  of  music.  As  it  is,  I  cannot  tell 
my  desires;  and  yet  I  want  but  little  here  below 
and  I  don't  want  anything  up  above — " 

34 


"Three  Stages  of  the  Game" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  renounce  your  part  of  the 
world  to  come?"  I  asked. 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  is  coming  to  me,"  said  Kei- 
dansky.  "  Besides  I  am  a  little  bit  'shy '  on  the  world 
to  come.  I  am  afraid  it  is  fashioned  too  much  on  the 
style  of  this  one,  and  down  here,  you  know,  I  am 
sometimes  tired  of  everything.  The  entire  pano 
rama  is  so  farcical,  the  whole  game  so  monotonous, 
and  our  heroics  are  so  ludicrous.  The  valetudina 
rians  make  me  sick.  I  am  weary  of '  The  Book  of 
Jade,'  and  clever  people  are  awful  bores.  Yes,  I 
am  somewhat  afraid  of  the  second  story  they  call 
the  other  world,  for  it  may  really  come,  and  history 
might  repeat  itself,  even  up  there. 
"The  mortal  fear  of  oblivion  makes  one  crave  for 
immortality;  but,  perhaps,  one  life  is  enough.  No 
matter  how  sinful,  or  how  saintly,  a  human  being 
has  been,  one  world  is  sufficient  of  a  punishment. 
Virtue  is  its  only  reward;  evil  is  its  own  punish 
ment.  The  life  beyond  —  is  beyond.  Let  it  stay 
there. 

"Promises  of  Heaven  and  threats  of  the  Midway 
do  not  move  me  so  much  now,  for  the  chances  are 
that  they  are  one  and  the  same  thing,  and  this  is  the 
only  place  we  are  sure  of  and  ought  to  make  the 
most  of.  There  is  some  good  down  here  in  spite  of 
the  reformers.  The  good  is  right  beside  the  evil,  and 
we  can  seldom  tell  the  difference.  The  saint  and  the 
sinner  often  exchange  pulpits  and  each  proves  the 
imperfection  of  the  other.  Paradise  is  right  next 

35 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

door  to  Purgatory ;  in  fad:,  you  want  to  be  careful 
when  you  are  around  that  way  lest  you  enter  the 
place  you  weren't  sent  to.  We  ought  to  make  the 
most  of  it,  I  say,  and  I  know  I  am  right,  because 
I  have  been  condemned  by  a  number  of  orthodox 
rabbis." 

"You  contradict  yourself,"  I  said. 
"I  do  it  to  be  consistent,"  said  Keidansky. 
cc  But  I  have  digressed  and  transgressed,  and  all 
because  of  your  useless  question.  As  I  was  saying, 
when  we  are  young,  ignorant,  innocent  and  inex 
perienced,  we  sternly  demand  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  We  come  to  en 
lighten  this  dominion  of  darkness,  to  right  a  world 
gone  wrong  and  to  guide  a  poor  and  deluded  man 
kind  to  the  eternal  verities.  Iconoclasticism  becomes 
our  creed,  infidelity  our  religion.  We  are  to  repeal 
the  world's  laws,  to  shatter  its  idols,  to  demolish  its 
traditions,  and  we  at  once  reject  its  standards  and 
ideals  because  they  are  not  founded  on  truth. 
"  We  question,  investigate,  analyze,  and  the  imag 
ination  of  youth  works  wonders.  We  are  all  gods 
in  our  dreams.  The  re-creation  of  the  world  is  but 
an  easy  task.  With  all  the  modern  improvements, 
it  can  be  done  in  less  than  seven  days,  it  seems. 
Glorious  quest  of  truth  and  the  golden  goal,  en 
chanting  castles  in  the  air,  of  which  youth  is  the 
architect!  Have  you  ever  been  young?  I  was  born 
old,  yet  I  know  something  about  it.  And  for  the 
rest,  you  know  what  happens.  Most  of  the  things  in 

36 


"Three  Stages  of  the  Game" 

the  world  end  sadly,  because  in  the  ending  of  a 
thing  there  is  sadness.  We  find,  at  last,  that  what  we 
wanted  cannot  be  had  for  the  asking ;  that  we  must 
pay  for  it  with  our  lives ;  that  the  truth  is  —  there  is 
no  truth  —  that  as  much  of  it  as  we  find  is  often 
more  than  we  want;  that  illusion  is  a  necessary  ele 
ment  in  the  composition  of  the  world;  that  every 
thing  is  relative  and  the  quest  of  truth  is  a  relative 
virtue.  I  hate  the  compromiser  and  deserter  and  I 
have  nothing  to  say  in  their  defence,  but  change  is 
in  the  very  nature  of  things,  and  sooner  or  later  we 
must  recognize  that  absolute  truth  does  not  exist, 
and  we  must  accept  the  old  foundation  for  building 
whatever  we  can  in  the  world,  and  realize  that  per 
fection  is  a  long  and  laborious  process  of  becoming. 
"  Later  on  we  really  see  that  all  is  for  the  best,  that 
the  pessimists  are  here  as  an  object  lesson,  and  we 
conclude  that  it  is  folly  to  be  too  wise.  We  cannot 
repeal  the  world's  laws  all  at  once,  but  we  can  break 
them  gradually.  There  is  much  wisdom  in  folly  and 
some  truth  in  falsehood,  too.  The  stupidity  of  the 
world  is  an  absolute  necessity :  the  world's  work  has 
to  be  done.  So,  at  least,  we  decide,  and  we  abandon 
the  impossible  quest  after  the  absolute  truth  and 
become  satisfied  with  justice,  mere  justice.  We  only 
ask  for  fair  play.  At  this  stage  of  the  game  we  are 
already  hardened  and  inured  to  things,  and  we  man 
age  to  get  along  with  justice,  such  as  it  is  when  we 
get  it  or  buy  it  in  court.  At  this  time,  if  we  are  pros 
perous,  we  read  and  relish  Omar  Khayyam,  the 

37 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

philosophy  of  whom  is  well  expressed  by  the  street 
urchin  when  he  says, c  I  don't  give  a  hang/  And  we 
also  laugh  at  the  poor  fools  who  seek  after  the  truth. 
Later  on  still,  when  we  grow  weary  and  weak  and 
cannot  have  justice  —  are  not  crafty  or  strong 
enough — we  come  down  a  little  lower  and  beg  for 
mercy.  Thus  we  reach  the  third  stage  of  the  game." 
The  speaker  paused  for  a  moment,  watching  a  little 
boy  who  was  trying  to  float  his  little  boat  on  the 
pond  —  for  we  were  lucubrating  in  the  Park,  where 
we  met  by  accident. 

"  That 's  all  very  well,"  I  said,  "  but  what  have  you 
to  suggest?" 

"  Why,  nothing  that  would  make  a  sensation  in  a 
newspaper,"  he  said, "  but  something  that  by  chance 
or  miracle  may  have  some  reason  in  it.  It  is  this :  Let 
the  youth  continue  his  noble,  heroic,  if  melodra 
matic,  quest  of  truth,  that  those  who  grow  wiser  and 
weaker  may  get  justice.  Let  the  young  strive  for  the 
impossible  and  the  possible  will  be  attained,  and 
those  who  ask  for  justice  will  really  have  it.  Let 
them  question  and  analyze  and  shatter  idols  and 
become  bombastic  and  hysterical  and  build  castles, 
and  dream  and  disturb  the  order  of  the  world — and 
let  us  admire  their  heilige  dumheit — that  some  day 
those  who  have  grown  feeble  may  find  at  least  fair 
play.  The  more  the  world  will  tolerate  the  extrava 
gances  of  youth,the  more  it  will  benefit  by  its  achieve 
ments.  Let  the  wildest  imaginations  have  free  play 
and  things  will  grow  fairer  and  more  fair.  Let  them 

38 


"Three  Stages  of  the  Game" 

dream.  To  be  disillusioned  is  a  trifle;  but  never  to 
have  dreamed  is  terrible.  Finally,  this  earth  will  be 
turned  into  a  heaven  by  all  those  who  have  failed  to 
do  it. 

"And  those  who  have  grown  older  and  sadder  and 
merely  ask  for  justice,  let  them  really  demand  it 
with  all  their  might,  and  so  shall  their  efforts  not  be 
in  vain,  and  so  shall  those  who  beg  for  mercy  receive 
it — or  none  beg  for  mercy.  If  those  who  ask  for 
justice  would  only  be  just  to  those  who  are  in  the 
other  stages  of  the  game,  and  if  those  who  beg  for 
mercy  would  only  be  merciful !  No  matter  at  what 
stage,  let  all  play  fairly  and  honestly  and  be  tolerant 
of  others,  and  all  things  will  tend  towards  ultimate 
decency.  Again,  were  there  more  demanding  truth, 
there  would  be  fewer  satisfied  with  mere  justice,  and 
none  would  beg  for  mercy.  At  any  rate,  more  truth, 
more  justice;  more  justice,  more  mercy,  or  no  need 
of  it  at  all.  If  only  every  one  would  want  something, 
mean  something,/^?  something.  Personally  I  cannot 
do  very  much,  for  you  see  I  am  somewhat  of  a 
preacher  myself.  Going  on  the  'elevated/  are  you? 
Sorry  for  you.  Good-bye." 


39 


VI 

"  The  Badness  of  a  Good  Man  " 

I  WAS  looking  for  Keidansky,  but  he  was  no 
where  to  be  found.  He  was  not  at  home,  and  my 
visits  to  a  few  of  his  favorite  resorts  were  also  in 
vain.  Then  they  told  me  over  at  Schur's  bookshop 
on  Canal  street,  that  there  was  an  entertainment  be 
ing  given  by  the  Alliance  on  that  evening,  and  Kei 
dansky  was  to  contribute  an  essay  to  the  literary 
programme,  a  paper  on  "  The  Badness  of  a  Good 
Man."  "It  serves  them  right,"  I  said,  and  I  forth 
with  betook  myself  to  the  dreary  quarters  of  the  Al 
liance,  which  formed  the  intellectual  centre  of  our 
Ghetto.  The  exercises  were  already  in  progress.  The 
hall  was  packed ;  hardly  any  standing-room  left. 
The  pictures  of  Karl  Marx  and  Michael  Bakounin 

—  the  respective  fathers  of  Socialism  and  Anarchism 

—  looked  down  upon  a  pious  and  picturesque  con 
gregation  of  people  who  swore  by  their  names;  the 
same  studious,  serious,  troubled,  yet  occasionally 
smiling  faces  of  young  men  and  young  women  of  the 
Jewish  quarter — seekers  after  light  among  the  peo 
ple  that  walk  in  darkness.  The  hall  was  brightly  il 
luminated.  The  people  were  in  their  best.  It  was 
Sunday  evening.  Even  Keidansky  had  condescend 
ed,  or  compromised,  and  paid  some  attention  to 
"external  appearances,"  this  time.  He  brushed  his 
clothes  "for  the  occasion,"  as  he  once  remarked.  At 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

any  rate,  there  was  some  change  in  his  attire  differ 
ing  from  his  usual  negligent  appearance.  This  was 
an  entertainment.  There  were  several  readings  and 
they  were  all  teeming  with  trouble,  and  propt  with 
problems.  The  recitations,  well  given  by  several 
young  women,  were  compositions  like  Hood's 
"Song  of  the  Shirt,"  William  Morris's  Socialist 
chants;  the  songs  of  suffering  and  joyless  toil,  sung 
in  Yiddish,  were  by  Edelstatt,  Rosenfeld  and  Gold 
stein.  The  people  over  here  enjoy  their  sorrows,  it 
seems. 

Keidansky  was  already  on  the  platform  when  I  came 
in;  in  fact,  he  was  already  reading  his  paper.  His 
paper  was  a  typical  utterance  of  the  iconoclast  that 
he  is,  and  craving  the  indulgence  of  the  reader,  I 
quote  here  as  much  of  it  as  I  copied  then  and  there, 
ere  we  come  to  the  conversation.  I  do  not  know  what 
he  said  before  I  entered,  but  after  that  he  hastily  and 
nervously  read  somewhat  as  follows : 
"  He  is  a  good  man  and  a  worthy,  and  a  useful  mem 
ber  of  society.  All  his  neighbors  say  so,  and  he  stands 
well  in  the  entire  community.  His  friends  are  legion. 
He  is  always  ready  to  do  them  a  good  turn, and  they 
are  in  turn  ever  ready  to  reciprocate.  He  lives,  acts, 
thinks  and  speaks  like  all  other  good  men ;  and  he  is 
exceedingly  popular  and  highly  respected.  He  is  tol 
erant.  He  agrees  with  everybody  on  almost  every 
conceivable  subject.  He  is  a  good  man.  This  is  a  free 
country,  and  every  man  has  a  right  to  his  honest 
opinion  —  provided  he  is  not  a  crank,  or  eccentric, 

42 


"The  Badness  of  a  Good  Man" 

and  does  not  make  himself  obnoxious  by  differing 
with  everybody.  In  that  case,  of  course,  the  man  is 
beyond  recovery;  he  is  lost  to  all  shame  and  to  the 
good  old  political  parties  and  principles. 
"He  respects  every  honest  opinion  and  sentiment, 
and  when  he  does  meet  a  man  who  differs  from  him, 
why,  he  gently  and  adroitly  changes  the  subject  and 
smiles  irresistibly  and  talks  pleasantly,  anyway.  Oh, 
well,  we  are  bound  to  differ  on  some  things  —  but 
what  is  the  difference  so  long  as  we  both  vote  the 
same  ticket?  Have  a  cigar?  When  the  man  does  not 
vote  the  same  ticket  it  is  really  too  bad,  you  know; 
but  there  is  still  a  smile  and  a  pleasant  word. 
"His  generous  contributions  to  the  charities  of  the 
city  are  well  known.  The  newspapers  frequently 
have  paragraphs  in  praise  of  his  philanthropic  deeds. 
The  press  is  one  of  our  greatest  institutions.  It  is 
the  palladium  of  our  liberties,  and  a  great  medium 
of  advertising.  There  are  always  good  words,  cigars 
and  drinks  for  the  newspaper c  boys/  They  are  a  lot 
of  fine,  clever,  noble  fellows  —  according  to  the 
press,  and  he  believes  it.  He  is  a  good  man. 
"  He  travels  through  life  in  the  good  old-fashioned 
way.  He  is  guided  by  the  morality  of  our  common 
ancestors,  abides  by  their  time-honored  customs  and 
reveres  their  sacred  traditions.  He  thinks  as  his 
fathers  thought,  whose  fathers  thought  as  their 
fathers  thought,  and  whose  fathers  —  never  thought 
anything.  He  is  a  good  man,  and  he  is  agreeable. 
He  once  almost  agreed  with  a  Christian  Scientist  — 

43 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

he  sold  him  a  parcel  of  property.  Christian  Scientists 
have  faith.  It  is  good  to  do  business  with  people  who 
have  faith.  There  is  always  much  truth  in  what  other 
people  tell  him,  only  we  are  bound  to  differ  on  some 
things,  as  he  always  says. 

"  He  is  a  patriot  and  his  lungs  are  ever  at  the  service 
of  his  country.  It  is  my  country,  whatever  it  does  or 
does  not  do.  Let  us  give  three  cheers  for  the  stars  and 
stripes,  and  hang  the  social  reformers.  The  people 
are  always  right  and  they  know  it.  He  believes  in  the 
people,  and  they  have  faith  in  him.  They  have  al 
ready  sent  him  to  the  Board  of  Aldermen,  and  there 
are  many  other  places  they  may  send  him  to.  There 
is  a  Congress  at  Washington,  and  many  good  men 
are  sent  there.  He  is  persistently  honest.  His  honesty 
has  been  brought  to  the  notice  of  many. '  Honesty  is 
the  best  policy '  is  a  line  ever  on  his  lips.  His  reputa 
tion  for  veracity  is  enviable.  It  pays  to  tell  the  truth, 
he  says.  He  tells  the  truth  as  he  sees  it,  and  he  sees 
it  as  everybody  else  does. 

"  He  is  the  most  active  member  of  the  largest  con 
gregation  in  his  district,  and  is  considered  a  strong 
pillar  of  the  church — even  of  society  at  large.  He 
gives  aid  and  succour  to  the  weak  and  the  failures ;  but 
he  is  always  on  the  side  of  the  strong  and  the  success 
ful.  It  is  the  largest  movement  in  his  community,  so 
cial,  political,  or  religious,  that  receives  his  staunch 
support.  And  it  so  happens  that  he  is  ever  in  accord 
with  the  tendencies  of  the  largest  movement. 
"He  is  a  good  man.  He  is  eminently  practical,  and 

44 


"The  Badness  of  a  Good  Man" 

he  harbors  a  horror  for  visionaries  and  their  Utopias. 
He  loathes  agitators  and  rebels,  disturbers  of  peace 
and  order.  Peace,  order,  accuracy,  submission,  obe 
dience,  duty  —  and  uniformity  is  a  good  word,  too. 
Children,  you  must  always  abide  by  the  powers  that 
be,  and  obey  your  parents ;  they  know  better  what  is 
best  for  you. They  have  buried  many  children.  Gen 
tlemen,  respect  the  flag.  This  is  a  free  country,  and 
the  Government  can  do  as  it  pleases  with  the  people. 
"Vague,  unexpressed  longings  of  a  new  time,  hun 
gry  desires  of  the  age,  wistful  heart-whispers  for  a 
freer,  higher  life,  muffled  music  of  far-off  seas,  stifled 
and  half-drowned  voices  of  the  submerged  Ego  cry 
ing  CI '  —  these  do  not  disturb  his  dreams.  He  has 
no  dreams.  Far  be  it  from  him  to  be  touched  by  the 
shapeless,  new-born  aspirations  which  are  suspended 
in  the  air  waiting  for  some  one  to  give  them  form. 
He  is  a  man  of  facts,  and  lends  no  credence  to  far 
away  fictions.  His  health  is  so  good  that  he  is  not 
easily  affected  by  theories  and  books. 
"  He  is  consistent  and  hardly  ever  changes  his  mind ; 
at  least  not  more  often  than  do  those  who  draw  up  the 
platform  of  his  political  party.  His  intrepid  loyalty 
to  his  party  cannot  be  forgotten  as  long  as  he  lives; 
he  stands  as  solidly  within  its  ranks  as  a  mortared- 
in  brick  within  a  wall. When  he  says  a  thing  it  is  said, 
and  he  keeps  every  promise  he  makes,  good  or  bad. 
He  prizes  highly  and  is  keenly  jealous  of  his  repu 
tation,  and  believes  in  living  up  to  it.  He  will  not  dif 
fer  from  you  on  matters  of  art  or  literature,  because, 

45 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

well,  because,  as  he  says,  he  is  not  well  up  in  these 
things,  and  besides,  it  is  all  a  matter  of  taste,  is  it  not? 
But  he  likes  agood  old-fashioned  melodrama ;  don't 
you? 

"  He  is  a  good  man.  Fathers  point  him  out  to  their 
sons  as  a  paragon  of  virtue.  He  never  swerves  nor 
deviates  from  the  path  of  duty  and  righteousness,  as 
he  sees  it.  He  is  indissolubly  linked  in  the  great  chain 
of  real,  practical,  daily  events  of  the  world,  and  he 
never  chases  any  phantoms — not  he.  He  never 
fights  with  fate.  He  takes  things  as  they  come,  and 
many  things  come  his  way.  Providence  seems  to  be 
on  his  side.  He  never  complains  of  the  powers  that 
be  in  heaven  or  on  earth.  God  made  the  world,  and 
no  man  can  ever  change  it.  All  that  is,  is  well  for  the 
industrious  and  the  successful.There  is  always  room 
on  the  top  for  those  who  can  crawl  up.  He  adapts 
himself  to  all  circumstances,  and  profits  by  most  of 
them.  He  moves  along  the  lines  of  least  resistance; 
is  ever  drifting  into  his  proper  niche.  He  will  cget 
there/  Where  he  cannot  be  aggressive,  he  is  agree 
able,  and  usually  gains  his  end.  He  never  falters,  nor 
fails  to  fall  in  line  with  the  rest.  It  is  always  safest  to 
be  on  the  safe  side.  H  e  positively  believes  in  the  bene 
fits  that  accrue  to  those  who  are  negative. 
"  He  possesses  all  the  negative  virtues  of  his  honored 
ancestors,  who  now  slumber  beneath  their  eulogisti- 
cally  inscribed  tombstones.  He  meekly  follows  their 
present  example  of  abstaining  from  most  of  the  vi 
cious  pleasures  of  life.  He  is  a  good  and  respectable 


"T&e  Badness  of  a  Good  Man" 

man,  and  he  never  lets  his  desires  run  loose;  they 
must  abide  by  certain  laws. 

"  He  is  deeply  interested  in  all  matters  concerning 
public  improvements.  Why  ?  The  motive  of  a  man's 
interest  in  public  affairs  is  often  a  private  matter ;  but 
the  impeccable  reputation  of  a  good  man  should  be 
a  sufficient  shield  against  the  scrutiny  of  the  inquisi 
tive.  The  inquisitive  will  never  go  to  heaven,  and 
they  will  cget  it'  here  on  earth. 
"He  is  modest.  He  frequently  complains  of  the 
credit  and  the  honors  that  are  given  him  by  the 
community — lest  his  hearers  should  not  know  that 
he  bears  the  burden  of  demonstrative  public  ad 
miration.  He  is  profusely  grateful  for  all  he  receives, 
which,  he  constantly  protests,  is  so  much  more  than 
he  deserves.  He  only  tries  to  do  his  duty  in  his 
humble  way.  He  is  effusively  cordial  and  friendly. 
He  has  a  pervasive,  confidence-inspiring  smile  for 
all  who  pass  him,  known  or  unknown.  He  clasps 
your  hand  firmly  and  shakes  it  long.  He  is  con 
genial  even  to  the  congealing. 

"  He  is  a  self-made,  self-advertised  man.  He  has  af 
fluence  ;  he  has  influence.  His  exemplary  character  is 
worthy  of  emulation,  as  the  newspaper  and  his  politi 
cal  friends  say ;  and  his  emoluments  are  not  few  nor 
far  between.  He  is  intensely,  surprisingly  religious. 
The  creed  of  his  fathers  is  good  enough  for  him.  He 
questions  not,  nor  doubts — not  he.  A  good,  devoted 
churchman,  he  is  a  regular  attendant;  and  he  never 
sleeps  nor  slumbers,  no  matter  how  long  and  how 

47 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

old  the  sermon  be.  He  is  a  brave  man.  The  good 
souls  of  his  district  are  most  lavish  in  praise  of  his 
piety. 

"Alas,  it  is  not  possible  to  enumerate  all  his  splen 
did  deeds,  his  high-classed  qualities  and  his  standard 
virtues.  But,  then,  that  is  hardly  necessary.  They 
speak  for  themselves,  or  for  their  owner.  He  is  a 
good  husband  and  father,  and  his  word  is  law  unto 
his  wife  and  children.  He  is  an  excellent  citizen,  a 
loud-mouthed  patriot.  He  is  a  good  man.  He  is  go 
ing  to  heaven.  And,  oh,  I  do  wish  he  would  go  there 
soon!" 

After  I  had  listened  to  this  scandalous  screed  and 
other  sombre  and  shadowy  things  that  were  on  the 
programme  of  the  entertainment,  I  finally  overtook 
the  offender,and  shook  hands  with  Keidansky."!  Ve 
been  looking  for  you,'*  I  explained,  "and  they  told 
me  you  would  be  here,  so  I  came,  and  caught  you  in 
the  aft." 

"Glad  you  showed  up,"  he  said;  "but  I  am  rather 
afraid.  Do  be  lenient.  I  cannot  defend  nor  explain 
everything." 

"Well,"  I  began,  leniently, "according  to  this  ha 
rangue  of  yours,  we  would  have  to  change  our  con 
ception  of  goodness  and  morality,  and  —  " 
"No,  we  don't  have  to,"  he  answered  impatiently; 
"but  we  can't  help  it;  it  is  always,  always  changing. 
The  good  man  of  one  age  is  the  dead  man  of  an 
other.  Between  vice  and  virtue  there  is  often  no  more 
than  a  change  of  mind.  Goodness  is  only  a  point  of 


"The  Badness  of  a  Good  Man" 

view,  and  morality  ceases  to  be  moral  after  awhile. 
What 's  a  good  thing  to  do  to-day  will,  in  all  prob 
ability,  be  the  best  thing  to  avoid  to-morrow.  It 's  all 
a  question  of  time ;  no  standard  stands  forever.  Why, 
the  coat  of  tar  and  feathers  is  going  out  of  fashion, 
and  even  in  New  England,  it 's  no  longer  a  crime  to 
be  happy.  Morality  is  but  an  arbitrary  agreement, 
subject  to  change.  It  is  a  catalogue  of  certain  accept 
ed  virtues,  which  should  be  edited,  revised,  and  re 
printed,  from  time  to  time;  for  many  of  the  articles 
in  this  booklet  go  out  of  fashion,  and  otherwise  be 
come  stale,  obsolete,  and  even  obnoxious.  At  best, 
the  goods  are  not  what  they  are  represented  to  be  by 
the  drummers,  that  is,  the  preachers,  when  it  comes 
to  their  delivery — when  it  comes  down  or  up  to  real 
life.  What  do  you  think  of  virtues  that  consist  either 
of  doing  nothing,  or  of  doing  things  for  no  other  rea 
son  than  that  they  have  bored  other  people  to  death. 
The  catalogue  is  full  of  them,  and  just  now  we  have 
come  to  a  time  when  our  current  conventional  mo 
rality  is  a  kind  of  mortality — dead  and  deadening.  It 
holds  us  down  to  outworn,  oppressive  systems,  cus 
toms,  regulations,  and  the  uniformity  of  things  is 
stifling. 

"  It  prevents  growth,  it  impedes  progress.  We  can 
not  live  as  free,  untrammelled  individuals. We  must 
be  citizens,  members  of  society;  we  must  be  what 
other  people  call  respectable. 

"  Everybody  owns  everybody  else.  Everybody  fol 
lows,  no  one  leads  his  own  life.  No  one  has  any  in- 

49 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

itiative.  Everybody  examines  your  moral  conduct, 
and  dictates  the  term  of  your  existence.  How  can  one 
have  a  religion,  if  he  must  live  up  to  the  faith  of 
everybody  else?  How  can  we  live  if  we  must  follow 
the  dull  and  noble  examples  of  those  who  are  dead 
and  never  knew  any  better?  Everybody  listens  to 
what  the  people  say,  and  no  one  hears  his  own  voice. 
This  is  an  age  of  machinery.  There  are  no  more  in 
dividuals  ;  there  are  automatic  walking  and  work 
ing  machines  which  have  been  wound  up  by  public 
opinion  to  run  so  many  hours  according  to  a  well-ap 
proved  system  of  regulations.  'What's  the  use  of 
common-sense?'  says  a  character  in  one  of  Jacob 
Gordin's  plays.  'What's  the  use  of  common-sense 
when  we  have  a  Constitution?'  Thousands  of  fools 
are  kneeling  before  the  fetish  of  public  opinion. 
c  What  will  the  people  say  ? '  they  all  ask.  Nothing, 
I  say,  nothing.The  people  never  say  anything.They 
only  talk.  Individuals  say  it  all.  Those  who  depend 
upon  others,  who  see  strength  in  union  are  weak 
lings.  United  we  fall,  divided  we  stand.  Those  who 
dare  to  tread  in  the  path  of  freedom,  who  dare  to  do 
things  and  say  things,  who  own  their  bodies  and 
never  raise  any  mortgages  on  their  souls,  who  make 
their  own  morality — they  are  the  people  who  ad 
vance  the  world's  progress  and  help  to  civilize  our 
civilization. They  have  nearly  always  been  called  bad 
by  their  contemptible  contemporaries — yet  they 
represented  all  the  goodness  worth  having.  God 
give  us  the  men  who  have  virtue  enough  to  do  as 


"The  Badness  of  a  Good  Man" 

they  please,  and  courage  enough  to  shock  their 
neighbors. 

"But  it's  all  system  and  monotony  and  imitation 
with  the  majorities,  and  a  lot  of  slavish,  knavish, 
puny  and  pious  little  beings,  afraid  of  their  own 
voices  and  not  daring  to  draw  their  breath  any  more 
often  than  their  neighbors  do,  and  with  whom  mo 
rality  and  sanity  is  a  matter  of  majority  rule  —  beings 
like  these  are  called  the  good  people. 
"This  idea  must  be  reversed.  We  must  come  to  real 
ize  the  utter  badness  of  the  conventional,  crawling, 
yours-truly-for-a-consideration,  good  people.  Also 
we  must  come  to  realize  the  supreme  goodness  of 
so-called  bad  people —  people  who  are  too  religious 
to  go  to  church —  to  whom  tyranny  of  any  kind  is 
the  height  of  immorality,  and  slavery  the  depth  of  it. 
We  must  have  more  bad  people  to  save  this  wicked 
world.  And  heaven  save  us  from  most  of  the  good 
people  of  to-day. 

"It  is  one  of  those  c  dumb-driven  cattle*  that  I  tried 
to  pay  my  respects  to  in  my  paper — one  of  those 
cattle  that  here  in  democratic  America  become  lead 
ers  of  men.  They  do  not  know  that  the  progress  of 
the  world  has  been  built  upon  discarded  customs 
and  broken  laws  —  but  let  us  go  down  the  street.  I 
must  have  a  drink  of  something  before  I  can  solve 
the  problem  to  your  satisfaction  —  or  even  convince 
myself  that  I  am  right." 


VII 

"  The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man  " 

PERHAPS  it  was  to  the  disgrace  of  the  Alli 
ance  that  Keidansky's  disquisition,  his  merci 
less  tirade  against  the  good  man,  was  received 
with  some  show  of  hand-clapping  favor;  and  it  may 
be  to  the  credit  of  the  membership  that  there  were 
those  in  the  audience  who  were  surprised,  shocked 
and  startled,  who  dissented  from  and  resented  his 
utterances.  At  any  rate,  the  dissenters  and  commen 
tators  stirred  up  a  discussion,  and  for  several  days 
after  that  it  was  a  topic  of  conversation  and  disagree 
ment  at  the  club,  at  the  cafes  and  such  places  where 
our  circles  would  congregate.  Those  who  dissented 
and  disagreed  with  the  man  who  questioned  the  very 
bases  of  our  morality  said  many,  varying  things  and 
not  all  things  were  said  in  Keidansky's  presence.  And 
he?  Sometimes  he  would  say  a  word  in  explanation, 
or  his  defence,  and  for  the  rest  he  listened,  looked 
wise,  smiled  and  relished  every  attack  made  against 
him.  His  opponents  finally  agreed  that  his  was  a 
one-sided,  partial  view,  and  they  told  him  that,  after 
all,  it  was  better  to  have  a  good  man  than  a  bad  one. 
"  But  it  yet  remains  to  be  proved,"  he  argued,  "  that 
the  average  good  man  is  not  a  whole  lot  worse  than 
the  so-called  bad  man." 

They  all  dared  him  to  prove  it,  to  present  the  other 
side  of  the  case,  the  goodness  of  the  bad  man.  "  I 

53 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

don't  care  to  prove  anything,"  said  Keidansky. 
" ( Even  the  truth  can  be  proved/  "  he  quoted  a  fa 
vorite  decadent;  "  but  if  you  want  me  to,  I  '11  try  to 
show  you  the  other  side  of  the  story,  as  it  seems  to 
me."  I  '11  write  it  to-night  or  to-morrow,  and  read  it  to 
you  all,  say,  on  the  evening  of  the  day  after  to-mor 
row,  at  the  Alliance."  We  all  agreed  to  be  there,  and 
accordingly  assembled  at  the  appointed  time,  and 
waited  until  Keidansky  appeared  with  a  folded  man 
uscript  sticking  out  of  his  coat  pocket.  H  e  was  all  out 
of  breath.  He  had  been  walking  very  fast  so  as  to  get 
here  "just  in  time  to  be  late."  He  had  just  finished 
his  composition. "  My  lamp  went  out  last  night,"  he 
explained,  "and  so  I  had  to  do  it  all  this  afternoon, 
and  just  got  through."  And  so  here  is  his  paper  as  he 
read  it  to  us  on  "The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man." 
"  He  is  a  bad  man,  a  worthless,  useless  member  of 
society.  Most  of  his  neighbors  say  so,  and  he  does 
not  stand  well  in  the  community.  His  friends  are 
few,  with  long  distances  between.  He  would  not  go 
far  out  of  his  way  to  do  a  fellow  a  good  turn  ;  does 
not  believe  in  favours,  he  says,  and  nobody  cares 
much  for  him.  He  lives,  acts,  thinks,  speaks  like  a 
bad  man,  and  to  say  nothing  of  popularity  —  very 
few  of  us  have  any — but  who  will  have  any  respect 
for  a  man  that  scorns,  jeers,  sneers  and  pokes  all 
manner  of  fun  at  respectability  ?  Respectability,  he 
says,  is  a  mark  of  public  formality  behind  which  to 
hide  private  rascality,  and  the  prettier  the  mask  the 
more  ugly  the  face. 

54 


"The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man" 

"He  disagrees  with  nearly  everybody  on  almost 
every  conceivable  subject.  No  matter  what  other 
people  think  of  his  opinions,  he  actually  believes 
them  to  be  right.  He  is  a  bad  man.  He  is  not  at  all 
tolerant.  When  he  disagrees  with  any  one — and  he 
does  that  most  of  the  time — he  bluntly  and  boldly 
tells  him  so  up  and  down,  and  he  is  ever  ready  to 
state  his  reasons  and  argue  the  case.  He  will  not  con 
ceal  his  convictions,  even  when  he  is  your  guest.  Of 
course,  this  is  a  free  country,  and  every  man  is  en 
titled  to  his  opinion  —  but  one  should  have  some 
tact,  politeness,  diplomacy,  courtesy.  If  every  one 
had  these  there  would  not  be  so  much  difference  of 
opinion  and  discord  in  our  land,  and  there  would 
be  more  peace  on  earth.  Polite  people  do  not  try  to 
force  their  opinions  upon  others. 
"  Polite  people  have  no  opinions  that  differ  from 
those  of  others.  I  doubt  whether  it  is  polite  to  have 
any  opinions  at  all.  The  aristocracy  is  setting  a  good 
example.  It  never  thinks.  Persons  who  think  too 
much  are  ever  behind  the  times.  But  even  if  one  has 
a  right  to  his  opinion,  he  certainly  has  no  right  to 
be  cranky,  eccentric,  and  disturb  the  mental  peace 
of  the  community  with  his  queer,  revolutionary  no 
tions.  Stubborn,  stiff-necked,  hard-headed,  deter 
mined,  impulsive,  he  is  ever  present  with  that  ubiq 
uitous  mind  of  his,  ever  ready  to  give  everybody 
a  piece  of  it.  Considering  the  frequency  with  which 
he  gives  everybody  a  piece  of  his  mind,  I  wonder 
that  it  is  not  all  gone  by  this  time. 

55 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

"He  is  a  bad  man.  He  is  aggressive  and  arrogant. 
His  faith  in  himself  is  offensive,  his  self-reliance, 
self-satisfaction  unbearable.  He  has  too  much  re 
spect  for  himself  to  follow  the  dictates  of  others.  His 
life  is  a  life,  he  says,  and  not  an  apology  for  living ; 
he  will  have  to  pay  for  it  with  death  and  wants  to 
make  the  most  of  the  bargain — live  fully  and  freely 
in  his  own  way,  however  reprehensible.  He  does  not 
want  his  neighbors  to  love  and  interfere  with  him — 
unless  he  cared  for  their  affection.  He  says  it  would 
be  a  sin  to  love  his  neighbors  if  they  did  not  deserve 
his  love.  The  welfare  of  the  community,  I  heard  him 
say,  depends  upon  the  absolute  freedom,  the  self- 
salvation  of  each  individual.  No  one  can  ever  do 
anything  for  another  unless  he  has  made  the  most 
of  his  own  life — good  or  bad.  Self-preservation  in 
the  end  prompts  us  to  do  most  for  others.  Selfish 
ness  is  a  pronounced  form  of  sanity.  Altruism  has 
enslaved  the  world.  Egoism  will  save  it.  And  I  could 
quote  you  such  monstrous  heresies  as  will  make  your 
hair  stand  on  end.  He  is  a  bad  man. 
"The  world  belongs  to  those  who  take  things  for 
granted.  He  will  not  take  anything  for  granted  and 
that 's  why  he  has  to  take  more  hard  knocks  than 
anybody  else.  He  impiously  questions,  doubts,  ex 
amines,  investigates  everything  on  the  face  of  the 
earth  and — God  save  us — even  the  things  that  be 
in  heaven.  He  is  a  living  interrogation  point,  ever 
questioning  the  wisdom  of  this  world  and  the  prom 
ises  of  the  one  to  come.  Nothing  is  so  sacred  as  to 

56 


"The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man" 

be  above  his  scrutiny;  he  has  little  reverence  for  any 
of  our  glorious  institutions.  He  says  they  are  the 
handiwork  of  men  and  often  as  crude  and  as  useless 
as  men  could  make  them.  Whatever  has  been  erect 
ed  can  be  corrected,  he  says.  He  thinks  lightly  of 
our  laws;  thinks  they  are  at  best  but  a  necessary  evil 
and  that  in  the  course  of  human  events  it  becomes 
necessary  to  abolish  all  evil. 

"He  is  a  bad  man.  He  does  not  even  recognize  the 
sacred  authority  of  tradition,  and  has  no  decent  re 
gard  for  precedent.  Precedent,  he  argues,  only  proves 
that  some  people  lived  before  us  and  did  things  in 
a  certain  way.  He  does  not  even — well,  think  of  a 
man  who  doubts  the  holy  right  of  the  majority !  He 
does  not  believe  that  the  majority  is  always  right ; 
in  fact,  he  contends  that  it  is  always  wrong.  By  the 
time  the  majority  discovers  a  truth  it  becomes  a 
falsehood,  he  avers.  The  majority  only  thinks  it  is 
always  right.  The  majority  is  but  another  word  for 
mediocrity.  He  does  not  heed  what  the  people  say. 
The  monster  called  majority,  in  spite  of  his  many 
heads,  does  very  little  thinking.  What  the  people  say 
seldom  amounts  to  a  meaning.  Morality,  he  argues, 
is  that  which  is  conducive  to  one's  happiness,  with 
out  interfering  with  or  injuring  his  fellow-men.  To 
be  moral  is  to  live  fully,  freely,  completely.  Moral 
ity  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  abnormal  stifling, 
starving,  thwarting  of  instincts  and  feelings. 
"  A  truth,  he  told  me,  is  a  truth,  and  a  principle  is 
a  principle,  whether  it  is  held  by  many  or  by  one. 

57 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

Numbers  no  more  make  right  than  might  does. 
" c  The  strongest  man  on  earth/  he  says,  cis  he  who 
stands  alone/  and  he  always  quotes  a  man  named 
Ibsen.  He  is  a  bad  case. (  Customs  and  convention 
alities  be  hanged/  he  says,  c  I  have  my  own  life  to 
live  and  mean  to  manage  it  in  my  own  way.  I  have 
laws  of  my  own  and  must  obey  them/  I  heard  him 
say  it  myself,  and  I  wonder  what  he  means  by  these 
things.  There  are  always  those  who  know  better  than 
you  what  is  good  for  you,  but  you  don't  want  to 
mind  them,  he  told  me.  The  most  advisable  thing 
in  the  world  is  never  to  take  any  advice.  There  may 
be  those,  he  once  remarked,  who  have  lived  longer 
than  you  have,  but  they  have  not  lived  your  life. 
"He  has  a  mania  for  principles.  I  think  that  is  a 
chronic  disease  with  him.  He  imagines  it  is  all  one 
needs  in  life.  There  is  not  a  material  advantage  in 
the  world  but  he  would  forfeit  it  for  a  moral  prin 
ciple,  as  he  calls  it. ( Ideals  are  very  well/ 1  once  said, 
cbut  one  must  live/  cNot  necessarily/  he  answered. 
c  One  must  die,  if  one  cannot  live  honestly/ 
"Always  he  talks  about  the  so-called  social  problem 
of  the  age.  I  do  not  know  just  what  that  is ;  but  if 
there  is  such  a  thing  as  a  social  problem  it  is  how  to 
abolish  social  reformers.  This  man  is  a  social  re 
former,  and  he  has  some  scheme  of  his  own  how  to 
reconstruct  society  on  a  basis  of  what  he  terms  jus 
tice  and  truth.  In  the  promulgation  of  this  scheme 
of  his  he  foolishly  spends  much  of  his  spare  time  and 
not  a  little  of  his  money — and  Heaven  knows  he 

58 


"The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man" 

has  not  any  too  much.  But  he  says  he  does  it  all  for 
his  pleasure ;  that  it  is  out  of  sheer  selfishness  that 
he  would  uplift  the  fallen  and  elevate  the  lowly.  He 
is  a  bad  man.  It  is  no  disgrace  to  be  poor,  of  course ; 
but  it  is  criminal  of  the  poor  not  to  know  their  place. 
I  half  told  him  so,  but  he  answered  in  his  usual  con 
tradictory  way  that  the  poor  have  no  place  at  all. 
"He  travels  through  life  very  much  by  his  own 
crooked  road,  with  his  own  conception  of  morality, 
justice  and  truth.  Out  of  justice  to  the  dead,  he 
argues,  we  ought  to  abolish  most  of  the  institutions 
they  have  left  behind.  Otherwise  they  are  being  dis 
graced  every  day  by  the  clumsy  workings  of  the 
things  they  have  established.  If  our  honored  ances 
tors  desired  to  perpetuate  their  taboos,  fetishes  and 
inquisitions  they  had  no  business  to  die ;  they  should 
have  stayed  here.  By  going  to  either  of  the  places 
beyond  they  have  forfeited  their  right  to  manage 
things  here  below.  The  dead  should  give  the  living 
absolute  home  rule. 

"  He  is  a  bad  man.  He  hardly  ever  gives  any  charity. 
He  does  not  believe  in  charity;  says  it  creates  more 
misery  than  it  relieves,  and  perpetuates  poverty  — 
the  crime  of  mankind.  Charity,  he  claims,  curses 
both  the  giver  and  the  receiver.  It  makes  the  former 
haughty  and  proud  and  the  latter  dependent  and 
servile.  What  he  wants  is  justice  and  the  rights  of 
all  to  earn  the  means  of  subsistence.  And  there  is  no 
use  in  quoting  the  Bible,  when  he  talks  of  poverty. 
The  Bible,  he  says,  is  a  great  book  which  could  be 

59 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

immensely  improved  by  a  good  editor  with  a  long 
blue  pencil.  All  the  immoral  problem-plays  pale  in 
to  pitiful  insignificance  beside  some  of  the  stories 
told  in  the  Bible — and  they  are  not  anywhere  half 
so  well  told.  Did  you  ever  hear  such  blasphemy  ?  He 
is  an  infidel.  He  does  not  even  believe  the  news 
papers;  has  little  faith  in  the  great  power  of  the  press. 
Most  of  the  newspapers,  he  told  me,  are  published 
by  the  advertisers  and  edited  by  the  readers.  Jour 
nalists  ever  follow  public  opinion,  and  they  are  never 
sure  of  what  they  believe  in  because  it  is  hard  to  find 
out  what  the  people  approve.  Weather  Bureau  pre 
dictions  are  often  Gospel  truths  beside  editorial  con 
victions.  The  best  papers  are  yet  to  be  printed.  He 
has  such  rank  disregard  of  the  past  and  the  present 
that  he  seems  to  think  that  all  things  really  great  are 
yet  to  come. 

"  He  puzzles  and  vexes  me.  I  don't  know  just  what 
he  is  in  politics.  I  doubt  whether  he  is  either  a  Repub 
lican  or  a  Democrat.  I  suspect  he  votes  for  the  Anar 
chist  party.  What  an  absurdity !  They  will  never  elect 
a  President,  and  this  foolish  man  has  not  the  ghost  of 
a  chance  to  get  an  office.  He  is  not  at  all  consistent. 
He  changes  his  mind  very  often.  No  matter  how 
zealous  or  ardent  he  is  about  his  ideas  he  is  ever 
ready  to  reject  them  to-morrow  and  accept  other 
views.  He  does  not  believe  in  the  newspapers,  in 
things  visible  and  present,  yet  he  has  the  utmost 
faith  in  far-away  fictions,  intangible  Utopias  and  the 
realization  of  iridescent  dreams. 

60 


"The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man" 

"  I  dare  not  repeat  all  his  outrageous  blasphemies, 
and  I  positively  cannot  mention  his  awful  heresies 
as  to  his  religion.  He  cannot  accept  the  religion  of 
his  fathers  because  they  were  infidels;  infidels  who 
built  little  creeds  out  of  fear,  who  were  afraid  of  their 
shadows,  who  had  monstrous,  libellous  conceptions 
of  God.  He  says  that  he  has  too  much  faith  to  be 
long  to  any  denomination.  Religion  is  so  large  that 
no  church  can  hold  it.  No  one  should  meddle  be 
tween  man  and  his  Maker.  Christ,  I  have  heard  him 
say,  may  never  forgive  the  Christians  for  what  they 
have  made  out  of  him,  for  robbing  him  of  his  hu 
manity.  No  church  for  him.  He  would  rather  wor 
ship  beneath  the  arched  dome  of  the  starry  skies  and 
offer  up  a  prayer  to  the  God  that  dwells  in  every 
human  heart  and  thinking  brain.  He  is  a  bad  man. 
"  He  is  always  on  the  ungrateful  side  of  the  few,  the 
poor,  the  weak  and  the  fallen ;  and  he  even  sympa 
thizes  with  beggars,  criminals,  fallen  women  and  low 
persons ;  is  not  afraid  to  mingle  with  them.  And  what 
advantage  can  he  ever  derive  out  of  that?  Absent- 
minded,  forgetful,  engrossed  in  his  queer  ideas  and 
impossible  ideals,  he  gets  lost  in  his  theories  and 
books,  and  loses  life.  He  does  not  realize  that  mil 
lions  have  found  this  world  as  it  is  and  millions 
more  will  leave  it  so.  Poor  man,  he  is  a  dreamer  of 
dreams;  and  to  see  the  invisible,  to  hear  inaudible 
voices,  is  the  most  expensive  thing  in  life.  He  sac 
rifices  affluence,  influence,  power,  political  office, 
honor,  eclat.,  applause,  the  respecl:  of  the  community, 

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the  regard  of  his  neighbors,  the  praise  of  the  press, 
the  advantages  of  politics  and  of  the  people's  ap 
proval — sacrifices  all  these  for  his  pitiful  brain-be 
gotten  fancies.  He  is  a  dreamer  of  dreams.  Yet  he 
seems  to  like  this  journey  along  the  lines  of  most 
resistance,  says  it  is  least  resistance  to  him,  and  he 
tells  me  that  he  enjoys  his  poverty  and  all,  im 
mensely.  He  freely  indulges  in  most  of  the  vain  and 
worldly  pleasures  of  life  as  he  sees  them,  regardless 
of  all  others,  considers  one  day  as  holy  as  another  and 
no  day  so  mean  as  to  wear  a  long  and  sanctimonious 
face  on,  and  he  says  that  the  only  thing  which  he 
prohibits  is  prohibition  in  any  form.  His  wife  does 
not  fear  him,  does  not  have  to  obey  him,  does  as  she 
pleases,  and  his  children  are  as  free  and  wild  as  little 
savages.  He  is  a  bad  man. 

"  But  what  can  be  doneP  Ministers  and  other  good 
men  have  repeatedly  tried  to  save  him,  but  he  evades 
all  their  efforts,  avoids  all  their  sermons.  He  would 
save  them  the  trouble  of  saving  him,  he  says,  because 
he  thinks  he  can  do  it  so  much  better  himself.  What 
can  be  done?  All  things  are  here  to  serve  him,  none 
to  subserve  him.  He  is  a  law  unto  himself,  and  has 
little  or  nothing  to  do  with  the  Government,  so  he 
says.  He  is  a  bad  man.  He  is  not  going  to  heaven 
—  and  yet,  and  yet — if  there  were  more  like  him 
this  world  would  be  so  different,  and  perhaps  no  one 
would  ever  want  to  go  to  heaven." 
There  was  a  pause  and  a  silence  at  the  close  of  the 
reading,  but  our  essayist  was  soon  spared  "  the  agony 

62 


"The  Goodness  of  a  Bad  Man" 

of  suspense,"  as  he  mockingly  remarked.  Then  came 
comments  of  varied  shades  of  opinion,  approving 
and  disapproving,  constructive  and  destructive,  too 
many  to  mention,  and  Keidansky  enjoyed  them  all. 
At  length  I  ventured  to  ask  him  what  sort  of  ad 
ministrator  his  friend,  the  bad  man,  would  make  if 
he  was  ever  elected  to  office. 

"  He  would  never  run  for  office,"  said  Keidansky, 
"  and  if  he  ran  he  would  never  be  elected ;  and  if  he 
ever  was  elected  he  would  certainly  be  a  dire  failure 
because  he  does  not  believe  in  managing  other 
people's  business.  The  best  of  men  will  not  want  to, 
cannot  do  it,  and  politics  is  no  test.  The  man  who 
goes  in  with  or  for  the  crowd  ceases  to  be  himself; 
and  therefore  we  ought  to  invent  our  public  officials 
and  not  make  them  out  of  men.  However,  don't 
press  me,  I  am  not  at  all  sure  about  these  things.  I 
only  know  that  the  bad  man  is  coming;  that  he  is 
here;  that  he  is  a  dire  terror  —  and  will  save  the 
world.  What  I  gave  you  here  is  a  mere  suggestion, 
a  hint  of  a  possibility,  a  premonition.  Every  concep 
tion  is  spoiled  by  the  description  of  it.  He  will  come, 
and  time  will  not  tame  him.  He  will  come,  and  the 
divine  institution  of  police-court  morality  is  doomed. 
The  virtues  of  the  future  will  be  useful.  They  will 
be  conducive  to  growth — real  happiness. 
"But,  as  I  say,  I  don't  want  to  appear  dogmatic; 
nor  to  be  too  sure  of  things.  The  most  useful  thing 
about  our  theories  is  that  we  know  them  to  be  use 
less.  The  best  thing  about  our  ideas  is  that  the 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

world  has  not  accepted  them  yet.  If  the  world  had 
accepted  them  these  ideas  would  probably  now  look 
like  last  winter's  snow.  Better  to  wait  until  it  is  ready 
for  them  —  then  they  will  not  go  to  waste.  Better  a 
bad  world  than  a  good  world  come  too  early  —  be 
fore  the  people  are  ready  for  it.  But  what's  the  use ! 
I  Ve  done  it,  my  friends,  and  my  apology  for  life  is 
—  that  I  never  apologize.  Come,  it's  getting  close, 
up  here.  Come,  let  us  forth  into  the  darkness  and 
pray  for  eternal  night — for  night  hides  all  the  ugly 
splendors  of  the  world." 


VIII 

"  The  Feminine  Traits  of  Men" 

c  ^C   T'OU  are  as  inquisitive  as  a  man,"  said  Kei- 
j       dansky. 

JL     "  You  mean — "  I  tried  to  correct  him. 
"  I  mean  as  inquisitive  as  a  man,"  he  repeated. 
This  was  at  a  social  gathering,  a  Purim  festival  given 
by  the  B'nai  Zion  Educational  Society  at  Zion  Hall. 
We  sat  in  the  little  back  room  adjoining  the  main 
hall,  which  formed  the  library  of  the  society.  There 
was  a  good  fire  in  the  stove ;  we  were  just  far  enough 
away  from  the  music  and  the  dance  to  enjoy  it,  and 
also  to  relish  our  chat. 

I  suppose  I  had  gone  beyond  the  point  of  discre 
tion  in  my  quest  of  information;  that  I  asked  some 
questions  of  a  rather  personal  nature  which  my  friend 
thought  best  to  leave  unanswered,  and  hence  the  re 
buke  I  received. 

"  Some  one,"  said  Keidansky, cc  ought  to  write  an  es 
say  on  cThe  Feminine  Traits  of  Men/  and  point 
out  in  what  a  pronounced  form  men  possess  the 
traits,  objectionable  and  acceptable,  they  constantly 
attribute  to  women.  For  centuries  women  have  borne 
the  blame  and  ridicule  and  criticism  for  qualities  they 
either  have  in  the  mildest,  most  insignificant  forms, 
or  do  not  possess  at  all — when  you  compare  them 
to  men.  And  it 's  about  time  they  should  be  vindi 
cated,  and  the  truth  should  make  them  free  from  this 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

popular  misconception.  It  seems  to  me  that  in  a  cer 
tain  way  men  have  actually  monopolized  most  of  the 
objectionable  traits  of  women  ;  and  to  have  shifted 
all  the  blame  on  them  for  all  these  years  was  a  cry 
ing  shame — an  outrageous  wrong. 
"  Yes,  some  one  ought  to  write  about  it ;  some  one 
who  is  young,  handsome  and  gallant  - —  so  that  he 
may  receive  the  gratitude  of  the  fair  sex.  For  in 
stance,  woman  is  said  to  be  inquisitive.  But  who, 
really,  is  so  anxious  to  know,  so  peevish,  petulant 
and  prurient  as  man  is  ?  Who  like  him  will  go  to  so 
much  trouble  to  find  out  the  minutest  detail  about 
men, women  and  things  that  surround  him?  Who  is 
so  eager  and  diligent  in  his  search  of  information, 
knowledge  and  light?  Who  like  unto  him  —  I  mean, 
his  majesty,  man — takes  such  loving  interest  in  his 
neighbors  and  pries  so  pitilessly  into  their  private 
affairs  ?  Who  makes  such  an  excellent  reporter,  de 
tective,  biographer?  Who  are  the  successful  editors 
of  our  newspapers  ?  Men,  of  course.  They  are  the 
ones  who  constantly  load  you  with  questions,  who 
are  ever  endeavoring  to  peer  into  your  inmost  self 
and  who  always  want  to  know  about  your  past,  pres 
ent,  future,  former  and  later  incarnations.  I  am  told, 
on  good  authority,  that  genealogy  —  which  I  un 
derstand  to  be  the  science  of  proving  that  your  great 
grandfather  was  somebody  and  that  somebody  was 
your  great-grandmother — that  this  science  has  been 
nurtured  and  garnered  and  brought  up  to  its  present 
state  of  perfection,  or  imperfection,  by  men. 

66 


"The  Feminine  Traits  of  Men" 

"It's  appalling,  this  curiosity  of  man/'  he  con 
tinued  fervently.  "He  can  go  sixteen  miles  out  of 
his  way  to  pick  up  the  smallest  scrap  of  a  fad,  or 
fancy.  He  can  colled  endless  stores  of  useless  infor 
mation.  He  fancies  nothing  so  much  as  fads.  His 
thirst  for  knowledge  cannot  be  satiated  even  by  flat 
tery.  Men  not  only  make  encyclopaedias,  but  they 
adually  use  them.  They  not  only  build  and  endow 
libraries,  but  they  adually  utilize  them  —  spoil  their 
eyes  over  musty,  misty,  mazy  volumes.  And  then, 
how  anxious  we  all  are  to  be  posted  on  the  most  un 
important  thingsconcerning  our  friends  and  the  peo 
ple  we  meet  and  know ;  we  are  ever  attempting  to 
read  their  minds  and  their  hearts,  and  if  there  are 
none,  we  put  meanings  into  them.  Have  not  the 
greatest  novelists  been  men? 

"  Motke  Chabad,  the  Jewish  jester,  once  came  to  a 
strange  town  near  his  native  city  of  Wilna,  and  as  he 
entered  the  community  a  patriarchal  old  Israelite 
accosted  him  with  the  usual  Shalom  aleichem.  Ma 
simecho  ?  (  Peace  be  with  thee,  stranger.  What  is  thy 
name  ? ' 

"  c  It 's  none  of  your  business/  answered  Motke. 
"  When  asked  why  he  thus  rudely  aded  toward  the 
old  man,  Motke  Chabad  explained  that  had  he  told 
the  stranger  his  name  the  other  would  have  asked 
where  he  came  from,  what  his  business  was,  how 
many  children  he  had,  if  he  was  married,  how  old 
his  father  was,  if  he  was  still  living,  if  he  had  any  rel 
atives  in  America,  if  he  ever  was  blessed  by  the  great 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

rabbi  of  Wilna,  etc.,  etc.,  and,  said  Chabad, *  to  say 
nothing  of  my  morning  prayers,  I  had  not  as  yet  had 
my  breakfast,  when  I  met  him/ 
"  Chabad,  you  see,  knew  his  brother,  man.  Men  curi 
ous  to  know?  Rose  Dartle  is  nothing  beside  Andrew 
Lang,  and  he  has  this  advantage  over  her — that  he 
exists  and  can  find  things  out.  Another  instance.  You 
go  into  your  store  or  faclory  in  the  morning.  You 
have  a  slight  toothache.  You  feel  and  look  rather 
seedy,  and  the  man  who  works  next  to  you  comes 
over  and  sympathetically  asks  you  why  it  was  that 
she  rejected  you,  why  the  other  fellow  won  her  heart, 
by  what  magic  charms  your  rival  eclipsed  you,  etc., 
and  he  keeps  on  with  his  queries  until  you  tell  him — 
"  Go  stand  up  on  the  first  corner.  Take  off  your  hat 
and  cry  out : '  Gentlemen,  this  is  a  hat,  this  is  a  hat ! 
Look  into  it ! '  And  in  a  few  seconds  you  will  have  a 
big  throng  of  curious  men  standing  about  and  star 
ing  at  you.  Women  who  will  happen  along  will  pass 
right  on,  but  men  will  stand  there  and  stare  —  like 
men. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  certain  things  were  consid 
ered  beyond  the  scrutiny  of  curious  men,  when  they 
were  held  too  sacred  for  investigations  and  explana 
tions,  when  the  things  that  were  not  understood  were 
deemed  holy  and  when  men  stood  in  reverence  be 
fore  these  things  and  bowed  and  took  off  their  think 
ing  caps.  But  now  they  want  to  know  everything  — 
even  the  things  that  are  of  prime  importance.  And 
there  is  no  use  in  telling  them  that  nothing  really 

68 


"Tfo  Feminine  Traits  of  Men" 

exists  —  not  even  the  logic  of  Christian  Scientists. 
They  want  to  know.  They  must  find  the  facts  or 
make  them.  What 's  the  use  of  living  if  one  does  n  t 
know  just  on  what  date  King  Pharaoh  died  ?  No 
news  may  be  good  news,  but  you  can't  run  a  news 
paper  on  that  principle  now-a-days.  Whether  the 
things  happen  or  not  man  wants  to  know  the 
facts  and  the  details  of  the  cases.  They  must  know. 
Knowledge  is  power.  To  know  is  to  be  able  to  boast 
of  it.  And  men  ever  boast  of  what  they  know  or  think 
they  know. 

"  But  why  say  more?  The  collected  knowledge,  the 
accumulated  data  and  science  of  the  world  suffi 
ciently  prove  the  inquisitiveness  of  men.  It  is  one 
faculty  which  works  many  ways,  you  know,  and 
these  ways  are  shaped  by  circumstances  and  condi 
tions.  Now  a  man  peeps  through  a  keyhole  to  get 
some  material  for  a  bit  of  gossip,  and  then  he  looks 
up  to  the  stars  to  make  an  astronomical  observation. 
But  the  Darwins  and  the  Newtons  and  the  Her- 
schels  prove  how  curious  to  know  men  really  are. 
"  And  it  is  their  extreme  vanity,  too,  that  makes 
men  so  presumptuous,  ostentatious  and  obstreper 
ous.  They  have  so  much  faith  in  themselves  that  no 
self-respecting  person  can  trust  them.  They  are  so 
confident  in  their  right  to  know,  so  convinced  of  the 
value  of  their  knowledge,  so  sure  of  the  absolute 
necessity  of  their  volubility.  They  are  so  unbearably 
overbearing,  self-conscious  and  self-centred  that 
they  forget  there  are  others  besides  them  in  this 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

world.  It  is  their  vanity  that  makes  men  speak  in 
volumes. 

cc  Then  they  say  that  women  gossip,  but  you  know 
that  they  are  far  outdone,  almost  totally  eclipsed  in 
this  respect,  too,  by  men.  Men  are  the  real,  rapid- 
transit  champion  gossips  and  talkers  of  the  world. 
It  was  a  dark  and  dismal  night,  as  the  story  goes, 
and  we  all  sat  around  the  fire  and  the  captain  said, 
cjack,  tell  us  a  story/  and  Jack  told  a  number  of 
stories,  and  so  did  others,  and  we  all  told  of  divers 
devilish,  wicked  things  our  friends  had  done,  and  in 
our  heart  of  hearts  were  awfully  sorry  we  did  not  do 
these  things  ourselves,  and  we  made  mud-cakes  out 
of  good,  well-preserved  reputations.  Oh,  how  well 
we  can  and  how  we  do  talk  about  our  neighbors;  but 
you  know,  people  do  like  to  talk  about  those  whom 
they  loveo  Marie  Corelli  recently  said — now  do  not 
scowl  because  I  quote  Marie  Corelli.  She  is  a  very 
good  woman ;  only  she  could  not  resist  the  tempta 
tion  to  write  a  few  novels,  and  they  may  not  be  so 
bad,  only  I  could  never  get  myself  to  read  them  be 
cause  I  heard  that  Queen  Victoria  liked  them  im 
mensely.  Hold  on,  though;  I  guess  I  did  read  one 
of  these  novels  in  a  Yiddish  translation ;  but  that  was 
because  the  translator  did  not  say  whose  work  it  was. 
I  think  he  thought  it  was  original  with  himself.  In 
fact,  he  passed  it  off  as  his  own — which  was  a  brave 
thing  to  do,  though  the  book  proved  to  be  popular. 
But  I  lost  my  train  of  thought.  Marie  Corelli  re 
cently  said  that  she  never  endured  such  a  babel  of 

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"The  Feminine  Traits  of  Men" 

gossiping  tongues  as  she  once  heard  when  being  en 
tertained  to  luncheon  at  a  men's  club,  and  she  added, 
c  nor  have  I  known  many  more  reputations  picked 
to  pieces  than  on  that  occasion.'  But  a  recent  writer 
told  us  what  awful  gossips  all  the  historians  have 
been,  and  they  were  all  men.  We  were  told  that 
Herodotus,  who  is  the  father  of  history,  was  also  one 
of  the  most  inveterate  of  gossips.  Saint  Simon  was 
considered  essentially  a  gossip,  and  even  therefore  a 
wonderful  historian  of  the  time  of  Louis  XV.  Pepys, 
this  writer  told  us,  was  the  greatest  gossip  that  ever 
lived,  also  the  greatest  historian  of  his  time.  Even 
Mommsen,  we  were  told,  shows  some  of  the  traits 
of  a  gossip  in  his  monumental  history  of  Rome.  The 
same  was  said  of  Gibbon  and  many  others.  Gossip 
is  not  only  the  raw  material  of  history,  we  were  in 
formed,  but  it  is  also  the  raw  material  of  the  realistic 
novel,  and  as  I  said  before,  the  finest  novels  have 
been  produced  by  the  sons  of  Adam. 
"Women  are  also  charged  with  being  loquacious, 
but  that  is  another  trumped-up,  false  charge.  You 
well  know  that  the  loquaciousness  of  men  is  prodi 
gious,  tremendous.  Man  is  the  most  wonderful  talk 
ing  machine  ever  invented,  and  one  of  his  favorite 
topics  is  the  talkativeness  of  woman.  Men  talk  you 
to  mental  derangement  and  death  wherever  you  go. 
There  is  no  escape.  Nearly  every  man  you  meet  is 
ready  to  tell  you  the  sad  story  of  his  life — sad,  be 
cause  he  is  ready  to  tell  it.  Many  of  them  write  their 
autobiographies,  and  what  with  these  and  their  ser- 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

mons  and  orations,  novels  and  essays,  histories  and 
philosophies — there  will  soon  be  no  more  room  for 
libraries.  And  the  worst  thing  about  man's  garrulity 
is  that  he  taxes  the  intellect  so  heavily,  that  what  he 
says  is  loaded  with  so  much  meaning.  Anything  a 
man  says,  you  know,  is  in  danger  of  becoming  litera 
ture.  It's  appalling.  He  always  makes  you  think, 
whereas  what  little  a  woman  does  say  is  so  light  and 
airy,  breezy  and  restive.  A  woman,  too,  writes  a  book, 
occasionally,  but  she  does  not  mean  anything  by  it. 
"  But  men  are  so  very  bad  in  this  respect,  so  terribly 
blatant.  They  never  cease  talking.  When  they  don't 
talk  they  write,  and  the  pen  is  worse  than  the  sword. 
Why  am  I  afraid  to  ask  the  man,  who  stands  near 
me  waiting  for  a  car,  what  time  it  is  ?  Because  he 
might  tell  me  of  his  grandfather's  heroic  exploits  in 
the  Civil  War.  To  have  gone  to  war  was  cruel ;  but 
to  have  left  some  one  behind  to  boast  of  it  was  crim 
inal.  Why  am  I  afraid  to  read  the  latest  short  story 
that  I  have  written  to  my  friend?  Because  he  might 
show  me  a  poem  just  done.  And  I  nearly  forgot  to 
point  out  what  a  monumental  proof  of  na'ive  garrul 
ity  the  Talmud  is.  The  Talmud,  that  strange  con 
glomeration  of  law,  love,  legend,  gossip,  fable,  and 
occasionally  a  bit  of  wisdom,  which  one  can  find  if 
one  searches  diligently. 

"They  say  also  that  women  are  capricious  and 
changeful;  but  the  progress  of  the  world  shows  how 
easily  men  change  their  minds.  Yes,  some  one  ought 
to  write  an  essay  and  point  these  things  out,andvin- 

72 


"The  Feminine  Traits  of  Men" 

dicate  a  much-maligned  sex.  It 's  a  good  chance  for 
a  man  for  some  interesting  gossip  on  the  subject." 
cc  I   suppose,     hen,  that  you  believe  in  woman's 
rights,'*  I  at  length  haphazarded  an  interruption. 
"  Yes,"  answered  Keidansky, "  I  believe  that  women 
should  have  all  their  rights,  and  should  not,  as  the 
French  cynic  would  have  it,  be  killed  at  forty.  It 's 
too  late.  I  mean,"  he  added  quickly,  "that  it 's  too 
late  to  talk  any  more  about  it." 


73 


IX 

The  Value  of  Ignorance 

WHAT  do  I  know?  I  don't  know  any 
thing/'  said  Keidansky,  "  and  I  don't 
care  to." 

"  I  thought  you  were  always  in  quest  of  knowledge," 
I  remarked. 

"I  am,"  he  answered:  "I  am  infatuated  with  the 
quest,  I  love  it.  It  is  so  exhilarating,  stirring,  full  of 
excitement  and  fraught  with  danger." 
"Danger?  Wherein  is  that?"  I  asked. 
"The  danger,"  he  emphasized,  "is  in  finding  the 
knowledge  I  am  in  quest  of;  for  once  your  search 
has  been  answered  with  success,  and  you  have  in 
formed  yourself  with  the  facts  of  the  case,  the  game 
is  up  and  the  fun  is  over,  as  the  Americans  say.  The 
hallucination  of  the  glorious  quest  is  shattered,  the 
suspense  is  spoiled,  the  ecstatic  expectations  are  de 
stroyed,  and  we  become  fit  subjects  for  illustrations 
in  the  Fliegende  Blatter.  CA  little  knowledge  is  a 
dangerous  thing*  and  a  lot  of  it  is  fatal.  Yes,  knowl 
edge  is  might,  but  illusion  is  omnipotence.  So  I  like 
to  seek  information  well  enough,  but  I  would  rather 
not  know." 

I  became  interested,  although  scandalized,  and  my 
companion  kept  on  musing  aloud. 
"  Not  to  know  is  to  hope,  to  fear,  to  be  in  delight 
ful  uncertainty,  to  dream  fair  dreams,  to  imagine  the 

75 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

most  impossible  things,  to  wonder  and  marvel  at  all 
in  childlike  innocence,  to  build  the  most  beautiful 
castles  in  the  air,  to  give  the  imagination  full  swing, 
to  conjure  up  the  most  fantastic  mythological  melo 
dramas,  to  stand  with  deep  awe  and  inspired  rever 
ence  before  all  the  mighty  manifestations  of  nature, 
to  form  the  finest  idols,  to  build  splendid  religions, 
to  have  faith  and  to  foster  it,  to  see  the  invisible,  to 
draw  gorgeous  rainbows  of  promise  upon  the  hori 
zon  of  life,  in  a  word,  not  to  know  is  to  sustain  per 
fect  illusion,  not  to  go  behind  the  scenes,  is  to  enjoy 
the  entire  performance. 

"  On  the  other  hand,  my  dear  fellow,  to  know  is  to 
have  your  wings  clipped,  to  see  the  distance  between 
the  earth  and  the  skies  and  the  difference  between 
you  and  what  you  thought  yourself  to  be,  to  feel 
your  littleness  and  become  dreadfully  aware  of  the 
absurdity  of  it  all,  to  have  the  imagination  arrested 
for  trespassing,  to  be  rejected  from  the  castles  you 
built  for  non-payment  of  taxes,  to  be  punished  for 
the  idleness  of  your  idols,  to  see  your  little  demi 
gods  crumble  at  the  rate  of  sixteen  a  minute,  to 
become  aware  of  the  futility  of  the  whole  business, 
the  shortness  of  terms  given  you,  the  unstability  of 
your  credit,  to  find  that  you  are  but  a  feather  blown 
hither  and  thither  by  the  whirlwind  of  the  world, 
that  your  greatest  plan  may  be  demolished  by  a 
whim  of  fate,  to  learn  that  the  stupid  moon  really 
does  not  look  so  pale  because  of  your  unrequited 
love,  and  that  the  great  sun  does  not  shine  because 


The  Value  of  Ignorance 

you  are  going  to  a  picnic,  to  discover  that  your 
credulity  was  the  only  miracle  that  ever  happened, 
and  that  even  gods  suffer  from  dyspepsia,  to  lose 
faith,  become  sceptic,  abandon  religion,  move  out  of 
the  balmy  fairyland  of  tradition  and  freeze  in  the 
realms  of  right  reason.  To  know  is  to  be  deprived 
even  of  that  little  confidence  in  your  power  to  al 
ter  the  course  of  the  universe;  to  recognize  how 
inexorable,  inscrutable,  indifferent,  the  powers  of 
life  are,  and  what  a  common  pedigree  all  things  of 
beauty  have ;  it  is  to  have  the  dramatic  effecl  of 
the  play  spoiled  and  to  vote  it  all  a  farce  and  a  fail 
ure. 

"  We  are  all  becoming  so  educated  now-a-days  that 
we  no  longer  know  the  value  of  ignorance,  and  we 
have  nearly  forgotten  things  of  goodness  and  of 
beauty  that  it  has  brought  into  the  world.  Ignorance 
is  the  mazy  mist  of  morning  in  which  so  much  is 
born;  it  is  the  mystic  dimness  wherein  all  things 
awe  and  enchant  forever.  Ignorance  is  the  begin 
ning  of  the  world;  knowledge  is  the  end  of  it.  In  the 
unexplored  vastnesses  of  ignorance  the  mind  soars 
through  all  the  heavens  and  works  wonders ;  in  the 
measured  spheres  of  knowledge  the  mind  travels 
carefully  and  creates  little  as  far  as  mythology,  theol 
ogy,  religion  and  poetry  are  concerned.  Were  it  not 
for  ignorance  we  would  not  have  had  all  the  wealth 
of  legends  and  fables  and  fairy  tales  and  sagas  and 
marcbcHy  strange,  weird,  wonderful,  to  intoxicate  the 
imagination  of  the  world  and  enable  us  to  live  for 

77 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

centuries  in  lands  of  magic  and  charm  and  dream 
like  realities.  And  if  you  see  some  works  of  beauty 
and  nobility  in  the  world  to  delight  you,  it  is  because 
we  have  just  come  out  of  these  lands,  and  we  are  imi 
tating  and  re-creating  what  we  saw  there.  There  are 
some  who  still  dwell  in  them,  and  they  send  us 
messages  and  often  bless  us  with  their  visits. 
"Thank  you  for  stopping  me.  I  should  not  have 
liked  to  be  run  over  before  you  had  listened  to  the 
rest  of  my  argument;  besides,  it  makes  a  mess  of 
one.  This  is  a  dangerous  crossing — for  a  debate. 
But,  to  continue:  Were  it  not  for  ignorance  —  had 
we  known  everything  about  God  —  Europe  would 
not  be  dotted  with  all  the  beautiful  cathedrals  and 
the  wonderful  treasures  of  art  that  are  an  everlast 
ing  source  of  enchantment  and  inspiration.  Were  it 
not  for  the  same  reason  we  would  not  have  such  a 
beauty  spot  in  Boston  as  Copley  square,  with  its  two 
imposing  churches,  Library  and  Museum  of  Art. 
And  remembering  that  all  objects  to  delight  the  eye, 
the  ear*  and  the  mind  began  at  the  earliest  shrines 
of  worship,  we  can  barely  calculate  how  poor  and 
meagre  all  our  arts  would  have  been  were  it  not  for 
this  ignorance.  What  would  poetry — in  the  largest 
sense — what  would  it  be  were  it  not  for  this  igno 
rance  concerning  Providence  P  And  poetry  is  the 
main  motive,  the  quintessence  of  all  the  other  arts. 
Religion  is  the  great  question  mark  of  the  world, 
and  what  you  ask  for  religion  I  ask  for  ignorance. 
Whether  the  makers  of  the  Bible  wrote  on  space  or 

78 


The  Value  of  Ignorance 

not,  no  one  can  deny  its  high  value  as  a  work  of 
poetry  and  fiction ;  and  as  much  can  be  said  for  all 
the  other  sacred  books  of  the  great  faiths. 
"The  mood  of  ignorance  is  worth  everything:  it  is 
wonder,  amazement,  naivete,  child-like  innocence, 
fairy-like  dreaminess. 

"In  ignorance  we  trust,  trusting  we  serve,  serving 
we  achieve,  achieving  we  glorify  our  names.  Not 
to  know  is  to  long  for,  to  expecl:  everything — and 
work  for  it;  while  to  know  is  to  be  sure  of  this  or 
that,  and  there  is  something  significant  in  the  coup 
ling  of  the  words,  'dead  sure/  'Tis  good  to  have 
faith ;  what  we  believe  in  is  or  comes  true.  The  illu 
sion  is  the  thing  that  makes  the  play.  We  are  all 
chasing  after  phantoms,  but  the  chase  is  a  reality, 
and  it 's  all  in  all.  The  less  we  know  about  the  re 
sults —  perhaps  the  more  we  do.  And  not  knowing 
how  incapable  we  are,  some  of  us  do  remarkable 
things. 

"A  Jewish  legend  tells  us  that  before  the  human 
soul  is  doomed  to  be  born  it  knows  everything,  is 
informed  of  all  knowledge  —  including,  I  presume, 
a  knowledge  of  the  Talmudic  laws  of  marriage  and 
divorce  —  but  that  at  its  birth  an  angel  appears,  gives 
the  child  a  schnel  in  noz,  or  tap  on  the  nose,  which 
causes  the  infant  to  forget  everything  it  knows  so 
that  it  may  be  born  absolutely  ignorant.  That  is  a 
good  angel,  I  say,  who  performs  a  good  office,  and 
not  like  the  rest  of  them,  who,  according  to  John 
Hay,  are  loafing  around  the  throne.  Here  is  a  use- 

79 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

ful  angel.  For  to  give  the  child  its  ignorance  is  to 
confer  a  great  boon ;  to  make  it  capable  of  some 
thing  in  life.  It  is  a  valuable  gift,  though  earthly 
creatures  soon  spoil  the  good  work  of  the  angel 
and  stuff  the  child's  head  full  of  all  sorts  of  useless 
knowledge.  Soon  the  mind  is  clogged,  the  faculties 
for  thinking,  wondering,  understanding  are  turned 
into  a  phonographic  apparatus  for  remembering 
what  should  never  have  been  learned,  and  the 
imagination  is  nipped  in  the  bud,  told  to  be  correcl: 
and  keep  still.  With  all  my  inability  to  learn  and  dis 
inclination  to  know,  there  are  still  a  few  things  I 
have  been  trying  to  forget  all  my  life,  but  I  cannot 
do  it.  At  the  point  of  a  cane  my  rabbi  drove  these 
things  into  my  head.  So  if  I  ever  impart  any  infor 
mation  to  you,  forgive  me  for  I  cannot  forget.  Here 
in  America  and  in  modernity,  where  superstition  is 
such  that  people  actually  believe  in  the  existence  of 
facls,  the  schools  and  colleges  form  tremendous  sys 
tems  of  stupefaction.  Poor  little  heads  of  innocent 
children  are  packed,  cramped  and  crowded  with  dates 
and  names  and  all  sorts  of  insignificant  data.  They 
teach  them  everything — except  what  interests  them, 
and  they  are  made  to  repeat  and  to  remember  all 
things  dry  and  dull  and  dreary.  ( Facls,  facts,  facts,' 
the  teachers  cry,  not  knowing  that  there  are  no  facts 
in  real  life.  Minds  are  measured,  ideas  must  be  of  a 
certain  size,  you  must  think  but  one  thought  at  a 
time  and  remember  all  things  in  history  that  never 
happened.  Thus,  fancy,  whim,  suggestion,  imagina- 

80 


"The  Value  of  Ignorance 

tion  are  sadly  neglected,  and  the  finest  faculties  are 
left  behind.  Everybody  knows  everything,  but  no 
one  understands  anything. 

"'Tis  so  with  people  generally — they  are  all  clam 
oring  for  what  they  call  facts,  explaining  things  after 
fixed  formulas,  making  the  most  astonishing,  dead- 
sure  statements;  in  short,  spreading  useful  knowl 
edge.  They  all  have  ideas  and  theories  and  philoso 
phies  after  a  fashion;  they  have  sized  this  universe 
up,  past,  present  and  future,  and  they  can  explain 
every thingexcept  themselves.  Everybody  has  found 
a  few  'facts,'  and  after  these  fashioned  a  universal 
panacea,  a  little  patented  plan  for  solving  the  social 
problem.  There  are  so  many  solutions  that  it  is  hard 
to  find  just  what  the  problem  is.  Reform  is  so  much 
in  style  that  even  a  corn  doctor  proclaims  himself 
a  social  saviour.  The  social  reformers  with  their  sure 
cures,  positive  facts  and  all-saving  systems  are  the 
plague  of  the  age.  There  is  no  escape  from  these 
things  they  call  certain  and  positive  and  indisput 
able.  Figures  and  statistics  and  so-called  facts  make 
up  the  sum  of  our  life.  Life  is  harnessed  by  systems 
and  we  are  strangled  by  statistics.  The  subtle,  the 
strange,  the  symbolic,  the  suggestive,  the  intuitive, 
the  poetic  and  imaginative,  theft  ash-lights  that  make 
you  see  eternity  in  a  moment  —  these  are  over 
looked  and  neglected.  The  things  really  true  are  for 
gotten.  What  is  that  Persian  legend  about  the  man 
who  devoted  his  life  to  planting  and  rearing  and  rais 
ing  the  tree  of  knowledge  in  his  garden,  and  after- 

81 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

wards,  in  his  old  age,  was  hanged  thereon?  What? 
There  is  no  such  Persian  legend?  Well,  then,  some 
Englishman  ought  to  write  it.  At  any  rate  this  shows 
the  value  of  knowledge.  The  fruit  of  the  tree  of 
knowledge  is  now  sweet,  now  bitter — but  mostly 
bitter.  We  analyze  and  examine  so  much  these  days 
that  we  find  within  ourselves  and  in  our  surround 
ings  the  symptoms  of  all  diseases  and  all  evil.  To 
quote  a  quaint  but  true  Zangwillism,  'Analysis  is 
paralysis,  introspection  is  vivisection,  and  culture 
drives  us  mad/  We  measure  things  so  closely  and 
leave  no  room  for  the  surprising,  the  spontaneous, 
the  freely  flowing,  the  lifelike.  The  age  of  reason  has 
come  and  we  are  no  longer  wise.  We  have  forgotten 
what  we  owe  to  ignorance.  'He  knows  everything/ 
said  the  doctor;  'there  is  no  hope  for  him/ 
"In  their  ignorance  of  human  nature  and  natural  law 
idealists  have  dreamed  and  created  the  most  unat 
tainable  Utopias,  and  their  impossible  visions  shaped 
our  destiny  and  made  us  great.  The  stirring  speech 
that  Lametkin  delivered  this  evening  is  partly  due 
to  his  ignorance  of  things  and  his  blind  faith  in  his 
panacea,  but  it  enthused  his  audience  immensely, 
and  it  will  have  a  wonderful  effect  upon  their  lives. 
The  other  day  I  read  some  beautiful  lines  by  Owen 
Meredith  about  the  child  who  cries  'to  clutch  the 
star  that  shines  in  splendor  over  his  little  cot/  The 
matter-of-fact  father  says  that  it  is  folly,  that  it  is 
millions  of  miles  away,  and  that  cthe  star  descends 
not  to  twinkle  on  the  little  one's  bed/  But  the 

82 


The  Value  of  Ignorance 

mother  tenderly  tells  the  child  to  sleep  and  promises 
to  pluck  the  star  for  it  and  by-and-by 

c  Lay  it  upon  the  pillow  bright  with  dewyy 

and  then  the  child  sleeps  and  dreams  of  stars  whose 
light 
'Beams  in  bis  own  bright  eyes  when  he  awakes.' 

"  Now  in  these  lines  one  may  find  justification  for  all 
the  idealizations  of  art,  but  they  are  also  suggestive 
of  the  value  of  ignorance.  So  it  is.  We  must  learn 
to  see  the  invisible.  We  must  be  oblivious  to  the 
obvious,  to  see  anything.  We  ought  not  to  try  to 
clear  up  everything.  If  life  were  not  a  problem  play  it 
would  not  interest  us  so.  Let  the  mystery  remain. 
Intimations  of  immortality  are  good  enough;  proofs 
would  kill  our  longing  for  it.  Whence?  Whither?  I 
rather  hope  these  questions  will  never  be  answered. 
The  halo,  the  maze,  the  mystery,  the  shadowy 
strangeness  of  it  all  makes  it  worth  while  and  gives 
the  fancy  freedom  to  fly.  Statistics  sterilize  the  imagi 
nation  and  figures  dry  up  our  souls.  Do  you  re 
member  Whitman's  cWhen  I  Heard  the  Learned 
Astronomers?'  The  lecturer  with  his  charts  and  dia 
grams  soon  made  him  unaccountably  sick,  till  rising 
and  gliding  out  of  the  lecture  room  he  wandered  off 
by  himself  cin  the  mystical,  moist  night-air,  and 
from  time  to  time  looked  up  in  perfect  silence  at  the 
stars,'  and  thus  became  himself  again. 
"  Let  others  seek  what  they  call  facts :  for  me  the 
lights  and  the  shades,  the  dimness  and  the  flash, 

83 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

the  chiaroscuro  of  life.  Let  others  pierce  through 
phenomena  and  impregnate  realities ;  my  favorite 
amusement  is  to  walk  upon  the  clouds  and  play  ball 
with  the  stars.  I  cannot  grasp  such  details  as  the  size 
of  the  earth,  the  distance  between  sun  and  moon. 
Logic?  Lockjaw.  Go  study  your  astronomy  and  let 
me  lie  on  my  back  in  some  verdant  field  and  gaze 
upon  the  stars,  and  I  shall  be  content.  Let  others 
study  botany,  give  me  but  the  fragrance  of  the 
blooms  and  flowers  and  let  me  gaze  upon  their  gor 
geous  riots  of  color.  For  others  the  study  of  anatomy, 
for  me  the  beauty  of  the  human  form  to  behold.  Let 
others  study  ornithology,  and  let  me  listen  to  the 
thrilling  music  of  the  winged  songsters.  Take  all  the 
sciences  that  explain  everything  away,  and  give  me 
the  things  beautiful  to  behold,  sweet  to  hear  and 
pleasing  to  touch.  And  before  you  run  away  let  me 
also  tell  you  that  there  is  a  mood  of  contemplation 
which,  for  comprehension,  passeth  all  science  and 
analysis. 

"  But,  after  all,"  he  added,  as  we  were  about  to  part, 
"  I  could  only  hint  at  these  things,  for  it  takes  a  very 
learned  man  to  prove  the  value  of  ignorance." 


Days  of  Atonement 

AL  day  the  Ghetto  was  astir.There  was  a  babel 
of  excitementat  the  markets,an  unusual  rush 
and  bustle  on  Allen  street.  The  stores  were 
well  filled  with  bargaining,  buying  men  and  women, 
and  the  push-cart  vendors  were  centres  of  attracted 
crowds.  Everywhere  housewives  were  busy  washing, 
clearing,  cleaning  their  homes. The  spirit  of  awe,  rev 
erence,  expectancy,  was  in  the  air.  The  great  day  of 
Rosh  Hashona  was  approaching;  New  Year's  day 
was  drawing  nigh. 

We  stood  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  Berosowsky's 
book  and  periodical  emporium,  the  strange  place 
where  you  can  procure  anything  from  Bernard  Fei- 
genbaum's  pamphlets  against  religion,  to  a  pair  of 
phylacteries,  from  Tolstoy's  works  in  Yiddish  to  a 
holy  scroll.  We  stood  and  gazed  on  the  familiar  yet 
fascinating  scene.We  had  just  left  the  store,  wherein 
we  glanced  through  the  current  newspapers  and 
other  publications. "  It  is  so  stupid  to  read.  Let's  go 
out  and  look  at  the  people,"  Keidansky  exclaimed 
abruptly  as  he  threw  down  a  eulogy  of  a  Yiddish 
poet  written  by  himself,  in  the  paper  of  which  he  is 
now  editor. 

Not  far  off  was  heard  the  short,  shrill  sound  of  the 
ram's  horn.  It  was  the  "bal  tkio,"  the  official  syna 
gogue  trumpeter  practising  for  the  nearing  ominous 

8s 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

days.  Hard  by,  a  cantor  and  his  choir  of  sweet  voices 
were  rehearsing  the  quaint  hymns  and  prayers  of  the 
great  fast,  singing  the  strange,  tearful,  traditional 
melodies  that  have  never  been  written,  and  yet  have 
come  down  from  generation  to  generation  for  hun 
dreds  of  years ;  the  weird  musical  wailings,  the  tunes 
of  the  cheerless  chants,  charged  with  the  sighs,  groans 
and  laments  of  centuries  of  sufferings,  flooded  the 
noisy  street,  mingled  with  the  harsh  cries  of  the 
hucksters,  and  were  lost  in  the  general  buzz  and  roar 
of  the  crowded  district. 

"  The  days  of  awe  and  of  atonement  are  upon  us/ '  said 
Keidansky,  "and  these  evocative,  awakening  voices 
are  drawing,  drawing  me  back  to  the  synagogue, 
back  to  the  days  of  childhood,  faith,  hope,  igno 
rance,  innocence,  peace,  and  plenty  of  sleep.  A 
broken  note  of  old  music,  then  a  flood  of  memories, 
a  sway  of  feeling,  and  no  matter  what  I  have,  or  have 
not  been,  I  am  again  as  pious  and  penitent,  and  as 
passionately  religious,  as  I  was  when  a  child  in  the 
most  God-fearing  Ghetto  in  the  world. 
"Did  you  say  something  about  free  thought,  the 
higher  criticism,  universal  religion,  about  the  law  of 
evolution  applied  to  religion,  about  all  creeds  being 
equally  true  and  equally  false?  Did  you  talk  to  me 
about  these  things  ? 

"Well,  a  scrap  of  Yom  Kippur  melody  and  the  faith 
of  my  fathers  is  my  faith.  Our  instincts  destroy  our 
philosophies.  f  Our  feelings  and  affections  are  wiser 
than  we  are ! '  The  old  is  preserved  for  our  self-pres- 

86 


Days  of  Atonement 

ervation.  The  new  is  destructive,  bewildering.  The 
old  is  often  worth  deserting,  yet  it  is  bred  in  the  bone ; 
it  is  comforting  and  consoling  and  easy  to  live  up  to. 
The  new  is  bewitching,  but  baneful;  it  breeds  dis 
content,  ennui,  we  can  hardly  ever  live  up  to  it. 
Blessed  are  those  who  live  in  the  world  they  were 
born  into.  They  are  also  damned,  but  that's  not  in 
their  time. 

"Tradition,"  Keidansky  continued  musing  aloud, 
"is  far  more  beautiful  than  history,  and  even  nature 
with  all  her  charms  has  to  be  improved  upon  by  art, 
by  illusion.  In  the  course  of  time  science  may  build 
up  some  interesting  superstitions,  but  meanwhile  it 
is  our  poor  debtor.  It  has  rilled  the  world  with  cold 
facts.  It  has  emptied  the  heart  of  its  fond  fancies. 
And  what  do  we  really  know,  after  all?  The  greatest 
philosopher  of  the  age  pauses  and  stands  nonplussed 
before  the  Unknowable.  The  densest  ignoramus  in 
the  world  knows  it  all;  knows  all  about  the  worlds 
beneath  and  beyond  —  their  climates,  inhabitants, 
populations,  moral  status,  tortures  and  pleasures. 
What  do  we  know,  anyway  ?  Next  to  nothing,  and  we 
feel  lonely  and  desolate  and  powerless  after  we  have 
had  everything  explained  to  us.  Orthodoxy,  at  least, 
gives  us  the  consciousness  of  having  some  control  in 
the  universe ;  it  gives  us  a  sense  of  shelter  and  of  safe- 
ty.We  know  we  have  a  kind  of  vote  in  the  general 
management  of  things.  We  can  accomplish  some 
thing  by  our  prayers,  by  fasting.  And  when  the  fear 
ful  days  come,  the  days  in  which  the  destiny  of  every 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

mortal  for  the  coming  year  is  determined  on  high, 
we  ask  for  atonement,  and  fast  and  pour  out  our 
griefs  in  mournful  prayers  and  burn  candles  for  the 
dead.  Our  voices  are  heard  on  high,  because  we  be 
lieve  they  are,  and  our  names  are  entered  in  the  Book 
of  Life  for  another  year.  Do  not  smile  now,  nor  look 
so  wise.  All  that  is,  is  well,  and  whatever  we  believe 
in  is  true.  The  greatest  sacrifice  we  made  to  science 
was  our  ignorance. 

"  But  whether  it  is  this  or  that,  there  is  something 
rooted  so  firmly  and  so  unfathomably  deep  within 
us  that  calls  and  pulls  us  back  to  all  that  we  have  de 
serted  and  tried  to  forget ;  and  when  these  hallowed 
days  come,  we  can  no  longer  drown  our  feelings.  No 
matter  how  far  I  went  in  my  radical  conceptions — 
and  I  often  went  far  enough  to  be  excommunicated 
by  my  worthy  brethren — no  matter  how  iconoclas 
tic  we  became,  how  absorbed  we  were  in  our  abstrac 
tions,  and  how  fearlessly  we  theorized,  the  season  of 
awe,  beautiful,  terrible  awe,  the  judgment  days  drew 
near  and  hearts  became  heavy  and  the  melody  of  the 
song  of  cKol  Nidro'  invaded  our  minds  and  shut 
out  all  the  other  music  we  ever  heard  in  our  lives.  It 
is  all  a  strain  of  music  that,  once  heard,  keeps  sing 
ing  in  our  memories  forever — this  faith  of  our  fa 
thers.  Go  where  we  will,  do  what  we  may,  the  beauties 
of  the  old  religion  are  with  us  yet  and  we  cannot,  we 
cannot  forget. 

"Among  the  radicals  of  the  New  York  Ghetto  there 
is  no  more  advanced  nor  brilliant  man  than  is  my 

88 


Days  of  Atonement 

friend  Bahan.  He  has  edited  some  of  the  best  Jew 
ish  publications ;  he  has  written  much  of  what  was 
best  in  them,  and  he  was  always  on  the  side  of  free- 
thought  and  new  ideas.  Like  myself,  he  belonged  to 
the  circles  that  had  reformed  Judaism  altogether.  He 
had  not  entered  a  synagogue  for  purposes  of  prayer 
since  he  left  Russia  as  a  youth,  and  that  was  many 
years  ago.  He  is  now  on  one  of  the  best  New  York 
papers,  and  when  Rosh  Hashona  and  Yom  Kippur 
arrive,  he  writes  about  these  holidays  so  fervidly, 
feelingly,  enthusiastically,  with  such  tears  in  his  eyes 
that  one  would  think  that  these  unsigned  articles  are 
the  work  of  the  most  pious  and  orthodox  Hebrew  in 
New  York.  And,  perhaps,  they  are  too,"  Keidansky 
added,  aside,  "only  if  Bahan  were  accused  of  ortho 
doxy  he  would  protest  his  innocence." 
"  That  was  years  ago,"  my  friend  continued  after  a 
pause. "  I  was  young,  seeking  new  worlds  to  conquer, 
and  so  I  fell  into  bad  company — among  people  who 
think.  They  are  mostly  free-thinkers  and  free-talk 
ers,  and  in  the  course  of  time  my  religion  dwindled 
and  I  became  as  erratic  as  any  of  them.  The  worst 
thing  about  one  who  begins  to  think  is  that  he  also 
begins  to  talk.  I  began  to  talk,  to  voice  my  doubts 
and  heresies,  and  soon  the  world,  or  at  least  my  rela 
tives,  were  against  me.  I  kept  on  saying  the  most 
unsayable  things,  and  when  New  Year's  came  I  re 
fused  to  go  to  the  synagogue,  because  I  had  discov 
ered  the  existence  of  the  Unknowable.  We  quar 
relled,  and  things  came  to  such  a  pass  that  I  left  my 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

cousin's  home,  where  I  had  been  living,  during  the 
Days  of  Atonement.  I  knew  what  I  knew  and  I  was 
ready  to  make  all  sacrifices  for  the  right  of  ranting 
and  raving  over  the  shameful  superstitions  in  which 
humanity  was  steeped.  The  world  was  before  me  and 
so  were  all  my  troubles.  But  even  when  I  refused  to 
go  to  the  synagogue,  I  was  at  heart  of  hearts  exceed 
ingly  lonely  without  it,  without  the  beautiful  service 
of  Rosh  Hoshona.  When  the  eve  of  Yom  Kippur 
came  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  Our 
circle  of  friends  was  to  meet  at  the  home  of  one  of  its 
members  and  spend  the  evening  gayly  and  happily, 
though  it  was  the  sad  and  solemn  Fast  of  Atone 
ment.  I  had  promised  to  come,  and  so,  when  all  the 
inhabitants  of  the  Ghetto  were  wending  their  way  to 
their  respective  houses  of  worship  I  started  with  a 
heavy  heart  to  join  my  friends,  glad  that  I  had  made 
the  promise  and  sorry  that  I  was  keeping  it.  I  ar 
rived  at  my  destination,  a  street  in  the  West  End 
Jewish  quarter.  When  I  neared  the  house  I  heard  a 
loud,  rather  boisterous  conversation  going  on.  I  rang 
the  bell.  Even  as  I  did  so  I  heard  a  number  of  shouts 
and  loud  peals  of  laughter.  I  did  not  wait  for  the  door 
to  open.  I  turned  and  walked  away.  I  walked  right  on, 
not  in  the  least  knowing  whither.  Before  I  was  barely 
aware  of  it,  I  was  in  Baldwin  place,  in  front  of  the 
Beth  Israel  Synagogue.  The  cantor  and  his  choir 
were  just  chanting  the  awe-inspiring,  soul-stirring 
prayer  of c  Kol  Nidro/  that  wonderful  product  of 
the  Spanish  inquisition,  written  by  a  Morano  dur- 

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Days  of  Atonement 

ing  the  darkest  days  of  Israel  and  freighted  with  the 
sighs  and  cries  and  moans  of  a  suffering  people. 
Those  strains  of  music  brought  me  to  my  own  life 
again.  I  entered  the  synagogue.  I  had  come  into  my 
own.  I  felt  such  peace  and  consolation  as  I  had  not 
known  for  ever  so  long. 

"  Do  not  ask  me  to  explain  it,  I  cannot.  If  the  in 
curability  of  religion  could  be  explained  it  could  also 
be  cured.  This  is  what  happened,  and  this  is  what 
still  happens  to  me  from  time  to  time.  It  may  be 
strange,  but  mine  is  a  government  of,  for,  and  by 
moods,  and  as  they  come  and  go  I  become  every 
thing  that  I  have  been  and  that  I  may  be. 
"  I  Ve  been  greatly  moved  by  many  preachers  and 
teachers  and  I  have  followed  some  of  the  most  ad 
vanced  advocates  of  our  time,  the  most  universal 
universalists ;  but  let  me  hear  one  of  the  beautiful 
old  chants,  such  as  c  Kol  Nidro,'  or  c  Unsana  Tau- 
keff,'  and  I  become  a  most  zealous  orthodox.  Did 
I  ever  tell  you  about  it  ? 

"c  Unsana  Taukeff'  is  the  most  important  prayer 
on  the  two  days  of  Rosh  Hoshona  and  the  Day  of 
Atonement.  It  is  known  as  the  '  Song  of  a  Martyr 
in  Israel ! '  The  story  of  the  prayer  is  one  of  the 
prettiest  in  Jewish  folk  tales.  It  is  the  song  of  Rabbi 
Amnon,  who  was  the  rabbi  of  Metz,  in  the  days  of 
Bishop  Ercembud  (101 1-1017).  Rabbi  Amnon  was 
of  an  illustrious  family,  of  great  personal  merit,  rich 
and  respected  by  Jewand  Gentile  alike.  The  bishop 
frequently  pressed  him  to  abjure  Judaism  and  em- 

91 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

brace  Christianity,  but  without  avail.  It  happened, 
however,  on  a  certain  day,  being  more  closely  pressed 
than  usual  and  somewhat  anxious  to  be  rid  of  the 
bishop's  importunities,  he  said  hastily :  c  I  will  con 
sider  the  matter  and  give  thee  an  answer  in  three 
days/ 

"  As  soon  as  he  had  left  the  bishop's  presence,  how 
ever,  his  heart  smote  him  and  an  uneasy  conscience 
blamed  him  for  having,  even  in  the  remotest  man 
ner,  doubted  his  faith.  He  reached  home  over 
whelmed  with  grief.  Meat  was  set  before  him,  but 
he  refused  to  eat,  and  when  his  friends  visited  him 
he  declined  their  proffered  consolation,  saying : c  I 
shall  go  down  mourning  to  the  grave/ 
"  On  the  third  day,  while  he  was  still  lamenting  his 
rash  concession,  the  bishop  sent  for  him,  but  he  failed 
to  answer  the  call.  Finally  the  bishop's  messengers 
seized  him  and  brought  him  before  the  prelate  by 
force.  c  Let  me  pronounce  my  own  doom  for  this 
neglect,'  answered  Amnon. c  Let  my  tongue,  which 
uttered  these  doubting  words,  be  cut  out.  It  was  a 
lie  I  uttered,  for  I  never  intended  to  consider  that 
proposition/ 

" c  Nay,'  said  the  bishop,  c  I  will  not  cut  out  thy 
tongue,  but  thy  feet,  which  refused  to  come  to  me, 
shall  be  cut  off,  and  other  parts  of  thine  obstinate 
body  shall  also  be  tormented  and  punished/ 
"  Under  the  bishop's  eyes  the  toes  and  thumbs  of 
Rabbi  Amnon  were  then  cut  off,  and  after  having 
been  severely  tortured  he  was  sent  home  in  a  car- 

92 


Days  of  Atonement 

riage,  his  mangled  members  beside  him.  Rabbi  Am- 
non  bore  all  this  with  greatest  resignation,  firmly 
hoping  and  trusting  that  his  earthly  torment  would 
plead  his  pardon  with  God.  The  days  of  awe  came 
round  while  he  was  on  his  death  bed,  and  he  desired 
to  be  carried  to  the  synagogue.  He  was  conveyed  to 
the  house  of  God,  and  during  the  services  he  asked 
that  he  be  permitted  to  utter  a  prayer.  His  words, 
which  proved  to  be  the  last,  given  in  English,  are 
somewhat  as  follows : 

"  c  I  will  declare  the  mighty  holiness  of  this  day,  for 
it  is  awful  and  tremendous.  Thy  kingdom  is  exalted 
thereon ;  Thy  throne  is  established  in  mercy,  and 
upon  it  Thou  dost  rest  in  truth.  Thou  art  the  judge 
who  chastiseth,  and  from  Thee  naught  may  be  con 
cealed.  Thou  bearest  witness,  writest,  sealest,  re- 
cordest  and  rememberest  all  things,  aye  those  which 
we  imagine  buried  in  the  past.  The  Book  of  Records 
Thou  openest ;  the  great  sophor  is  sounded;  even 
the  angels  are  terrified  and  they  cry  aloud  :  "  The 
day  of  judgment  dawns  upon  us,"  for  in  judgment 
they,  the  angels,  are  not  faultless. 
"c  All  who  have  entered  the  world  pass  before  Thee. 
Even  as  the  shepherd  causes  the  flock  he  numbers 
to  pass  under  his  crook,  so  Thou,  O  Lord,  causest 
every  living  soul  to  pass  before  Thee.  Thou  number- 
est,  thou  visitest,  appointing  the  limitations  of  every 
creature  according  to  Thy  judgment  and  Thy  sen 
tence. 
" c  On  the  New  Year  it  is  written,  on  the  Day  of 

93 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

Atonement  it  is  sealed.  Aye,  all  Thy  decrees  are  re 
corded  ;  who  is  to  live  and  who  is  to  die.  The  names 
of  those  who  are  to  meet  death  by  fire,  by  water,  or 
by  sword;  through  hunger,  through  thirst,  and  with 
the  pestilence.  All  is  recorded ;  those  who  are  to  have 
tranquillity ;  those  who  are  to  be  disturbed ;  those 
who  are  to  be  troubled  ;  those  who  are  to  be  blessed 
with  repose  ;  those  who  are  to  be  prosperous;  those 
for  whom  affliction  is  in  store  ;  those  who  are  to  be 
come  rich,  those  who  are  to  be  poor ;  who  exalted, 
who  cast  down.  But  penitence,  prayer  and  charity, 
O  Lord,  may  avert  all  evil  decrees/ 
"When  he  had  finished  this  declaration,  Rabbi  Am- 
non  expired,  dying  in  God's  house,  among  the  as 
sembled  sons  of  Israel. 

"  I  can  never  forget  these  prayers,  nor  these  days, 
go  where  I  will,  do  what  I  may,"  Keidansky  con 
tinued.  "  Did  you  say  something  about  free  thought, 
the  higher  criticism,  universal  religion,  the  law  of 
evolution,  the  study  of  comparative  religion,  the  ab 
surdity  of  superstition?  Come,  let  us  go  over  to  yon 
der  house  ;  the  cantor  and  his  choir  are  now  singing 
<  Unsana  Taukeff.' ' 
And  I  followed  him. 


94 


XI 

Why  the  World  Is  Growing  Better 

THE  world  is  growing  better  than  it  ever 
was  before/'  said  Keidansky;  "we  no 
longer  practise  what  we  preach."  And  be 
fore  I  had  time  to  recover  from  my  surprise  and  utter 
any  protest,  he  hastily  continued  in  his  exasperating 
manner:  "We  still  believe  in  certain  doctrines,  hold 
certain  theories,  advocate  certain  ideas,  preach  cer 
tain  gospels;  but  we  feel  different  and  act  much 
better  when  it  comes  to  real  life.  We  are  far  wiser  in 
adjusting  our  acts  to  our  ends,  or  rather  our  deeds 
are  more  wisely  adjusted  to  our  aims  than  we  know. 
We  do  not  desecrate  these  principles  we  entertain  by 
putting  them  into  practice.  We  don't  feel  like  doing 
so.  We  let  the  abstractions  float  above  us  as  vapor  in 
the  air.  We  have  human  instincts,  good  motives, 
noble  longings,  and  our  conduct  is  fairly  decent  in 
spite  of  our  conflicting  codes. 

"From  a  thousand  pulpits  we  are  told  to  do  this, 
that,  and  the  other ;  a  thousand  theories  would  divide 
our  paths  in  life;  a  thousand  methods  of  salvation 
are  presented  to  us  by  the  only  and  original  author 
ized  agents  from  on  high;  but  our  humanity  makes 
us  all  akin,  our  instincts  guide  us  and  our  yearnings 
lure  us  all  the  same  way  to  perdition  and  to  happi 
ness  ;  and  we  follow  after  and  pave  the  way  for  the 
ideal  world.  How  widely,  vastly  different  our  relig- 

95 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

ious  and  moral  beliefs  and  our  abstractions  are.  And 
yet,  how  nearly  alike,  how  similarly  we  all  ad:  and 
perform  our  parts  in  the  world's  work.  We  still  dif 
fer,  dispute  and  debate  over  the  future,  the  trend  and 
ultimate  aim  of  things;  but  we  no  longer  allow  these 
differences  to  prevent  us  from  acting  in  unison  and 
harmony  in  all  things  that  are  conducive  to  our  bet 
ter  development  and  chief  good.  A  dozen  men  can 
not  agree  upon  a  Church,  so  they  form  another  trust ; 
and,  aiding  the  industrial  growth  of  the  country,  they 
work  out  their  own  salvation,  and  in  the  course  of 
time  endow  colleges  and  build  mansions  and  pay 
fabulous  sums  for  great  paintings,  and  even  feed  the 
beggars  that  live  on  theology.  These  men  agree  on 
one  thing,  and  that  is  most  important  of  all. 
"As  I  said,  we  still  listen  to  and  believe  in  many  of 
the  crude,  incongruous  and  misty  creeds  that  are 
preached  to  us,  but  we  walk  upon  more  solid  ground 
when  it  comes  to  life,  and  all  that  we  want  to  make 
of  it — which  is  the  most  possible.  We  build  wiser 
than  we  know,  and  we  disobey  the  preachers  because 
we  can  rise  above  them,  do  better,  and  put  their  ad 
vice  to  shame.  Have  we  discarded  the  book?  Well, 
we  have  followed  life ;  and  see,  this  world  is  quite  in 
habitable  now.  That  we  differ  in  theology,  on  le 
gends,  myths,  is  a  trifle,  but  that  we  agree  on  the 
education  of  the  young,  hygiene,  athletic  exercise, 
morning  walks,  cold  baths,  pure  diet,  music,  pic 
tures:  that  we  agree  on  the  value  of  all  these  things 
makes  the  game  worth  the  candle. 


Why  the  World  Is  Growing  Better 

"For  instance,  we  are  perpetually  urged  to,  and  we 
half  believe  it  best  to,  renounce  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil,  forfeit  all  the  joys  of  life,  and  join  the 
Society  for  the  Prevention  of  Anything;  but  inaclu- 
ality,  we  are  all  strenuously  engaged  in  capturing 
the  world,  in  gratifying  the  flesh  and  in  getting  as 
much  devil  into  us  as  is  possible  in  the  pitifully  brief 
span  of  this  short  life.  This  is  absolutely  necessary. 
The  more  devil  within  us  the  better.  A  man  with  rio 
devil  in  him  will  not  go  to  heaven,  or  any  other 
pleasurable  resort.  By  doing  and  daring  and  devil 
ing  we  become  strong,  and  if  the  world  is  better  to 
day  than  it  ever  was  before,  which  it  certainly  is,  it  is 
because  we  no  longer  practise  what  we  preach  —  have 
nearly  always  practised  better.  If  man  did  not  do 
things,  and  do  them  so  much  better,  sermons  would 
never  become  obsolete;  but  as  it  is,  loads  of  them 
have  to  be  dumped  in  some  swamp  every  little 
while. 

"We  have  also  been  advised  as  to  the  beautiful  vir 
tues  of  humility,  meekness,  timidity,  obedience,  sub 
mission,  self-effacement,  self-suppression,  wiping 
yourself  off  the  face  of  the  earth  with  benzine  and  a 
rag,  and  we  have  believed  in  the  advice,  but  fortu 
nately  only  believed ;  for  a  voice  from  within  prompt 
ed  us  to  feel  and  be  different  and  do  more  wisely.  So 
we  cultivated  haughtiness,  pride,  aggressiveness, 
have  given  free  play  to  our  physical  and  spiritual 
forces,  have  become  conscious  of  our  powers,  and 
more  powerful  still,  and  the  phantom  of  freedom 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

is  becoming  a  fact  and  the  world  is  growing  fair. 
We  walk  with  our  heads  erect  nowadays,  no  matter 
what  conception  we  have  in  our  minds.  We  have  be 
come  so  arrogant  that  we  even  question  the  divine 
right  of  bishops  and  policemen.We  take  off  our  hats 
for  nothing,  known  or  unknown.  No  matter  what 
we  believe,  we  feel  that  obsequiousness  is  the  most 
disgraceful  word  in  the  dictionary.  Then  we  are  be 
coming  so  self-appreciative  and  selfish  that  we  re 
fuse  to  let  others  save  us.  The  salvation  of  a  soul  is 
a  rather  delicate  matter,  and  it  cannot  be  done  at 
short  order  while  you  wait,  by  all  those  whose  adver 
tisements  we  have  read.  It  is  not  quite  so  easy  a 
matter  as  it  is  to  find  a  watchmaker  to  put  your  time 
piece  into  good  repair.  In  fact,  we  are  growing  so 
egoistic  that  we  want  to  do  it  ourselves.  We  no  long 
er  want  any  mark-down  bargains,  such  as  salvation 
for  a  prayer,  a  fish  dinner  or  ninety-eight  cents  in 
charity.  We  feel  the  fraud  of  bribing  our  way  into 
heaven. Those  are  cheated  most  who  get  their  things 
cheaply.  It  is  the  height  of  impudence  and  imbecil 
ity  to  think  that  putting  on  a  long  face,  or  some 
other  act  of  piety  or  penance,  will  change  your  des 
tiny,  and  incidentally,  the  course  of  the  universe.  At 
least,  we  feel  that  these  things  are  wrong,  no  matter 
what  we  think.  Life  or  death  or  immortality,  a  man 
must  pay  his  rent.  Everything  has  its  price.  What 
you  get  for  nothing  is  worth  the  same.The  theologi 
cal  bargains  will  not  wear  well  at  all.  You  must  pay 
honestly  and  fairly  for  everything  you  receive,  and 

' 


the  W^orld  Is  Growing  Better 

for  all  you  become.  What  we  procure  for  nothing 
is  not  worth  while.  We  are  only  cheating  ourselves 
miserably  when  we  attempt  to  get  what  is  best 
through  bribes  and  pass  through  the  gates  on  false 
pretences.  Whatever  we  have  been  told,  we  feel  that 
we  cannot  follow  the  newspaper  advertisements  in 
these  things  and  buy  redemption  at  closing-out  bar 
gain  sales.  No  one  can  grow  for  another,  no  one  can 
acquire,  no  one  can  become  for  another,  no  one  can 
be  saved  by  proxy  or  buy  salvation.  Each  must 
work  and  suffer  and  struggle  his  way  up. 
"  I  see  that  you  are  a  little  incredulous  about  these 
things,"  he  said,  after  a  short  silence.  "Do  you  find 
it  hard  to  follow  me?  I  know  exactly  what  I  mean, 
only  the  difficulty  lies  in  making  you  see  it  as  I  do. 
No;  don't  be  in  haste.  Let's  walk  a  little  more.  I 
am  afraid  your  education  is  being  sadly  neglected;  I 
have  n't  talked  at  you  for  some  time.  No ;  I  never 
hasten.  Whenever  I  am  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  to  a 
place  of  the  most  urgent  necessity  I  walk  into  a  sec 
ond-hand  book  store,  like  those  on  Fourth  avenue, 
and  look  at  the  titles  and  read  the  prefaces  of  old  and 
odd  volumes.  Never  mind  the  swarming,  surging, 
scurrying  crowds.  They  are  attending  to  the  world's 
business,  and  make  it  possible  for  me  to  be  idle  and 
look  on. 

"  Butwhat  I  was  driving  at  is  this :  That  there  is  one 
life  and  many  theories  of  it,  that  most  of  these  theo 
ries  are  a  disgrace  even  to  Sunday  schools,  that  it  *s 
all  hitting  the  nail  on  the  finger.  While  these  theo- 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

ries  would  have  us  go  by  various  little  walks  and  by 
ways  and  lanes  and  alleys,  life  prompts  us  to  take  to 
the  open  road  that  leads  to  strength  and  happiness. 
While  these  theories  would  have  us  thwart  and  stifle 
and  starve  our  desires,  life  forces  us  to  give  them  full 
play  in  spite  of  all  conventions  and  creeds,  and  the 
result  is  civilization  and  all  its  blessings.  Way  down 
into  the  recesses  of  our  souls  we  are  so  deeply  relig 
ious  that  we  all  do  better  than  we  believe. 
"  Take  three  children  of  different  birth ;  send  them 
to  three  different  schools,  instruct  them  in  three  dif 
ferent  religions,  and  then,  will  they  not,  when  they 
grow  up,  work  and  aim  and  struggle  and  trade  and 
worry  and  aspire  and  get  dyspepsia — in  short,  live 
and  die  in  very  much  the  same  way,  and  more  or  less 
fairly  and  squarely  ?  Inasmuch  as  their  morals  will 
be  useful,  will  they  not  be  of  the  same  brand?  Will 
they  not  do  better  than  they  respectively  believe  ? 
There  are  other  illustrations.  The  leading  orthodox 
rabbi  of  this  city  naturally  believes  in  the  restoration 
of  Palestine,  the  regeneration  of  Judaism,  the  resur 
rection  of  the  Hebrew  language,  and  the  resuscita 
tion  of  many  things  long  dead  and  passed  away.  In 
his  speeches  he  is  a  most  ardent  advocate  of  the  re 
vival  of  Hebrew  lore,  the  essence  of  all  wisdom  ac 
cording  to  him,  and  the  greatest  of  all  tongues,  the 
Hebrew  language,  which  revival,  he  avers,  is  the 
most  radiant  promise  of  Zionism.  The  neglect  of 
the  ancient  lore  in  this  country  is  his  most  woful  re 
gret.  But  his  own  son  he  sends  to  Harvard  for  a 

100 


Why  the  World  Is  Growing  Better 

modern  education,  and  the  son  will  become  a  man 
of  the  world  and  a  useful,  valuable  member  of  soci 
ety  because  his  father  did  better  than  he  believed. 
"  c  A  year  hence  in  Jerusalem/  cries  the  pious  He 
brew  at  the  close  of  his  holiday  prayer,  and  then,  as 
soon  as  the  festival  is  over  he  buys  himself  a  little 
house,  pays  $800  down,  raises  two  mortgages  and, 
trusting  in  God,  he  hopes  to  pay  up  the  entire  sum 
in  about  ten  years,  and  he  and  his  family  are  happier 
and  this  country  is  richer  and  better  for  their  being 
here.  c  A  year  hence  in  Jerusalem/  and  here  we  are 
doing  what  we  can  for  our  own  good  and  for  the 
good  of  whatever  country  we  abide  in,  and  all  of  us 
are  well  because  we  act  better  than  we  preach  and 
believe.  Most  of  us  believed  in  the  colonization  of 
Palestine  when  we  were  way  back  in  Russia,  yet  we 
came  over  here  feeling  that  this  is  the  new  promised 
land.  Palestine  may  be  a  good  place  for  the  old  to 
die  in,  if  the  superstition  is  true  that  the  worms  will 
not  touch  your  corpse  there,  but  I  don't  think  it  is 
a  promising  country  for  the  young  to  live  in.  The 
land  that  was  once  flowing  with  milk  and  honey  now 
lacks  water.  No,  I  don't  know  in  what  part  of  New 
York  they  make  the  Passover  wine  that  they  bring 
from  Palestine. 

cc  I  am  somewhat  of  a  Zionist  myself,  as  you  know, 
but  as  soon  as  I  can  afford  it,  as  soon  as  my  Yiddish 
play  is  produced  and  the  New  York  critics  condemn 
it  to  a  financial  success,  I  will  send  for  my  little 
brother  to  come  from  Russia  to  this  country,  and  as 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

there  is  no  genius  in  our  family,  I  am  sure  he  will 
do  very  well  here.  Yet  I  believe  in  the  restoration 
of  Palestine,  and  so  long  as  the  Zionists  permit  me 
to  live  in  this  country  I  am  willing  to  support  their 
movement. 

"  And,  let 's  see,  there  's  something  else.  I  want  to 
fix  you  up  so  that  you  will  never  again  come  to  me 
with  that  hackneyed  plaint  that  the  world  is  going 
to  the  dogs  because  we  do  not  practise  what  we 
preach.  We  have  laws  and  we  all  preach  against  in 
termarriage,  do  we  not?  We  all  condemn  the  inter 
marriage  of  Jew  and  Christian,  of  Protestant  and 
Catholic,  of  chorus  girl  and  rich  college  student,  of 
an  actress  and  a  minister;  we  prohibit  these  things 
and  perhaps  rightly,  and  yet — " 
"  And  yet  ?  "  I  asked  anxiously. 
"  Do  not  be  alarmed,"  he  answered  quickly;  "I  am 
not  going  to  advocate  intermarriage  or  assimilation. 
By  this  time  you  will,  perhaps,  have  gathered  from 
what  I  said  that  I  do  not  much  believe  in  measures 
that  have  to  be  advocated;  rather  do  I  favor  the 
things  that  heart  and  soul  prompt  us  to  do,  what 
ever  our  beliefs  and  theories  and  in  spite  of  them. 
The  advocacy  of  a  thing,  or  the  supposed  necessity 
of  advocating  a  certain  measure,  proves  the  useless- 
ness,  untimeliness  and  futility  of  it.  It  is  hardly  wise 
to  advocate  anything.  Things  must  be  brought 
about  by  conditions  to  be  of  vital  import.  Least  of 
all  should  any  one  ever  advocate  intermarriage,  and 
yet,  and  yet — do  you  remember  these  lines? 

IO2 


Why  the  World  Is  Growing  Better 

cc  c  Two  shall  be  born  the  whole  wide  world  apart  > 
And  speak  in  different  tongues  and  have  no  thought 
Each  of  the  other  s  being,  and  no  heed. 
And  these  over  unknown  seas  to  unknown  lands 
Shall  cross ,  escaping  wreck,  defying  death , 
And  all  unconsciously  shape  every  a£l 
And  bend  each  wandering  step  to  this  one  end, 
That  one  day,  out  of  darkness  they  shall  meet 
And  read  life* s  meaning  in  each  other  s  eyes.' 

"  Yes/*  he  concluded,  as  we  were  about  to  part,  "  the 
world  is  growing  better  than  it  ever  was  before  —  and 
it  is  n't  because  we  have  a  more  efficient  police  force 
either/' 


103 


XII 

Home,  the  Last  Resort 

"f  |  ^HERE  is  no  place  like  home,"  said  Kei- 
2  dansky,  "  and  there  's  nothing  like  run- 
I  ning  away  from  it." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  the  home?"  I  asked. 
"Nothing,"  he  answered,  "except  that  very  often 
everything  is.  You  are  surprised  ?  "  he  continued. 
"That's  promising.  Somehow  when  I  see  you 
shocked  it  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  am  saying  some 
thing,  and  I  am  encouraged  to  go  on.  What  do  I 
mean?  Just  this: 

"  There  is  no  place  that  is  so  small,  petty  and  narrow 
as  the  home  is;  there  is  no  place  so  close,  cramped 
and  crowded ;  so  limited,  restricted  and  tape-meas 
ured.  There  's  no  place  where  there  is  such  agree 
ment,  unity  and  uniformity ;  where  there  is  so  much 
subordination,  subjection  and  cooppression — if  you 
will  pardon  the  coining  of  a  word  —  as  in  the  home; 
no  place  where  there  is  such  conformity  of  opinion, 
speech  and  action;  where  there  is  so  much  depend 
ence, inter-dependence  and  inter-domination;  where 
so  much  good  advice  is  given  you,  so  many  high  ex 
amples  set  up  and  so  many  paragons  of  perfection 
presented  to  you ;  no  place  where  there 's  so  much  up 
holding  of  old  standards  and  so  little  scope  for  build 
ing  new  ones  ;  where  respectability  is  regarded  with 
such  reverence  and  the  neighbors'  say  held  so  sa- 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

cred;  no  place  so  lacking  initiative,  so  barren  of 
originality,  so  devoid  of  daring —  no  place  where  you 
are  so  tenderly  cared  for,  so  kindly  comforted,  so 
closely  watched,  and  so  grossly  misunderstood  as  the 
home.  It  is  the  most  dangerous  place  in  the  world. 
"  No,  do  not  interrupt  me  —  I  know  just  what  you 
are  going  to  say.  Let  me  state  it  for  you — while  I 
am  at  it.  What  I  said  is.  blasphemy,  of  course,  and 
what  you  want  to  say  is  that  the  home  is  the  garden 
where  all  our  virtues  flower  and  bloom ;  that  it  is  the 
foundation  of  our  morals,  the  birthplace  of  our  high 
est  ideals,  the  great  character-builder,  the  school  of 
patriotism,  the  source  of  true  religion,  the  protector 
of  our  national  life,  the  benign  soul-uplifter,  the  place 
where  goodness  and  purity  flourish,  and  the  place 
where  the  best  principles  are  manufactured.  I  know 
just  what  you  are  going  to  say  because  I,  too,  have 
heard  some  sermons  and  have  read  some  after-din 
ner  speeches  in  my  life.  And  I  do  not  say  that  these 
utterances  are  altogether  misleading.  There  is  some 
good,  I  doubt  not,  in  a  sermon  and  some  shadow  of 
truth  even  in  an  after-dinner  speech.  But  because  the 
home  has  ever  been  the  subject  of  indiscriminate  en 
comiums  and  puffy  panegyrics,  no  one  has  ever  dared 
to  say  anything  against  it.  It  has  not  been  treated  as 
a  human  institution,  and  so  many  crimes  have  been 
committed  in  its  good  name.  It  is  because  these  beau 
tiful  things  about  it  are,  or  are  supposed  to  be,  that 
so  many  of  us  have  been  sentenced  to  stay  home 
without  a  proper  trial. 

1 06 


Home,  the  Last  Resort 

"  Granting  even  that  the  halo  is  not  hollow  and  that 
home  is  the  ideal  place  it  is  pictured  to  be,  the  admis 
sion  is  perhaps  the  strongest  argument  against  it  and 
for  running  away  from  it;  for,  in  that  case,  the  home 
is  almost  too  good  a  place  to  stay  in,  too  tame  and 
agreeable,  a  nest  of  the  neutral,  a  triumph  of  the 
negative,  maybe,  and  hardly  a  place  where  you  can 
grow,  learn,  enlarge  and  expand  distinctly  and  in 
your  own  way.  I  fear  me  that  in  any  case  home  is 
about  the  last  resort  where  one  can  express  his  indi 
viduality  and  become  fully  equipped  to  grapple  with 
the  world  and  those  who  own  it.  Do  not  misunder 
stand  me.  No  one  intends  to  wage  wanton  war 
against  that  which  is  held  in  reverence. 
"  The  radical  is  only  ahead  of  time  because  all  the 
others  are  behind  it.  No  one  wishes  to  abolish 
merely  for  the  sake  of  abolition.  There  is  no  satis 
faction  in  mere  annihilation.  No  one  wishes  it.  Wis 
dom  and  folly  have  the  same  intention.  To  say  that 
the  most  destructive  radical  and  the  most  orthodox 
conservative  are  in  perfect  agreement  as  far  as  their 
aim  is  concerned  will  be  dangerously  near  uttering  a 
commonplace.  Both  seek  well-being  and  happiness. 
There  was  a  time  when  there  was  a  little  difference 
between  the  two;  when  one  of  the  two  parties  wanted 
to  postpone  that  welfare  unto  another  life ;  but  now, 
in  this  hasty  age,  both  demand  all  that  it  is  possible 
to  procure  here  and  now.  There  may  be  difference 
of  opinion,  but  there  is  no  difference  of  intention. 
The  object  of  all  is  to  preserve  the  virility  of  our  be- 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

ing,  the  veracity  of  soul,  the  strength  to  do  and  to 
be.  There  may  be  a  question  as  to  my  being  a  con 
servative,  but  there  is  no  doubt  that  I  am  a  conser 
vator.  I  would  conserve  everything  that  is  conducive 
to  growth  and  happiness.  What  I  believe,  what  I 
say,  has  this  object  in  view.  And  having  this  in  view, 
I  realize  that  in  the  course  of  human  events  it  ever 
and  anon  becomes  necessary  to  demolish  the  divini 
ties  that  be. 

"  If  I  seem  to  attack  this  sacred  institution  it  is  be 
cause  it  has  a  very  seamy,  sore  and  searing  side  to  it. 
In  the  first  place  there  are  usually  parents  at  home. 
What  a  pity  that  parents  and  children  cannot  be  of 
the  same  age ;  that  there  cannot  be  some  under 
standing  between  them.  What  a  sorrow  that  those 
who  brought  us  into  the  world  should  have  no  sym 
pathy  with  us — that  those  whom  we  love  most 
should  understand  us  least ;  that  there  should  be 
such  conflicting  contrasts  in  feeling,  in  thought,  in 
temperaments  and  tendencies.  But  regrets  do  not 
alter  circumstances.  They  exist  and  they  are  obdu 
rate.  The  old  look  backward :  the  young  look  for 
ward.  The  old  have  become  hardened,  inured  to 
things  and  indifferent :  to  the  young  this  is  the  great 
est  danger.  The  old  are  relics  of  the  past;  the  young 
are  the  hopeful  heirs  of  the  future.  To  the  former 
life  is  a  lost  game,  to  the  latter  it  is  a  beautiful  dream. 
The  old  stand  with  their  backs  to  the  rising  sun, 
with  their  faces  towards  their  graves ;  they  belong  to 
a  dying  world  and — the  pity  of  it! — they  would 

108 


Home,  the  Last  Resort 

shape  the  destinies  of  those  who  belong  to  the  glo 
rious  future ;  they  would  make  the  children  prema 
turely  wise  and  deprive  them  of  most  of  the  fun  in 
life  and  all  the  benefits  that  come  from  folly,  error 
and  indiscretion.  Age  would  convince  youth  that  life 
is  real  and  earnest  and  a  practical  business — which 
is  not  true  in  the  case  of  youth  —  and  should  not  be. 
There  is  constant  disagreement,  or  agreement — 
which  is  often  worse,  for  it  implies  submission  of  the 
weaker  party.  The  freedom  of  the  young  is  ever  cur 
tailed.  The  home  is  often  their  prison.  Youth  and 
age  is  a  bad  match,  and  that 's  the  disadvantage  of 
home.  See  this  moonlight:  it  is  beautiful,  is  it  not? 
But  a  flower  must  have  sunshine  in  which  to  bloom. 
All  respecl:  for  age:  but  youth  must  have  freedom. 
"I  hope  this  is  not  true  of  many  phases  of  life  ;  but 
I  am  thinking  now  of  a  condition  in  the  Ghetto  that 
creates  appalling  misery,  a  condition  that  makes  the 
homeamost  desirable  place — to  run  away  from. Be 
tween  the  Jewish  children,  who  have  acquired  their 
uplifting  education  here  in  American  schools  and 
their  parents,  who  have  brought  their  ignorance  and 
fanaticism  over  from  Russia — where  the  despotism 
of  the  throne  and  the  tyranny  of  the  Torah  have 
united  in  making  the  densest,  darkest  Ghettos  — 
between  these  children  and  parents  there  is  a  differ 
ence  in  time  and  progress  of  several  hundred  years. 
I  would  like  to  pause  here  and  tell  you  about  the 
Jewish  religion  —  how  it  has  enlightened  the  world 
and  darkened  the  life  of  the  Jews,  victims  of  fatal  fa- 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

naticism  ;  how  the  world  has  accepted  the  spirit  of 
Judaism  in  various  forms  and  to  its  benefit,  and  the 
Jews  have  remained  bound  by  a  thousand  rigid  rit 
uals,  iron  precepts,  meaningless  stuff  about  c  pots 
and  pans,'  to  their  awful  detriment — how  they  per 
secuted  themselves  when  they  could  get  no  Chris 
tian  nation  to  do  it  for  them  —  but  there  's  no  time 
to  talk  about  these  things  now ;  besides,  I  want  to  get 
back  to  the  home.  So  many  things  occur  to  me  and 
I  do  not  know  what  to  say  first.  Write  about  it?  Per 
haps,  some  day.  It  may  be  that  I,  too,  have  been 
cursed  to  live  by  the  sweat  of  my  pen,  but  oh  —  I 
hate  to  write.  Besides,  what 's  the  use  ?  It  is  too  late 
to  convert  my  people  to  Judaism,  now. 
"  But  what  I  mentioned  before  shows  a  pronounced 
phase  of  misunderstanding,  estrangement  and  di 
vision  between  children  and  parents,  also  a  good  il 
lustration  of  the  bad,  narrow,  uncongenial  home. 
"  Under  any  circumstances  the  old  and  the  young 
are  out  of  joint ;  but  here  the  clashing  of  interests  is 
so  accentuated  that  the  condition  is  heart-tearing. 
There  are  parents,  crude,  careless,  callous,  often  es 
sentially  material,  mercenary,  miserly,  whose  only 
mental  occupation  is  their  blind,  outlived  fatalistic 
faith ;  they  are  Russian  produces,  and  they  cannot 
follow,  cannot  comprehend  their  Americanized,  in 
telligent,  idealistic  and  aspiring  boys  and  girls ;  they 
follow  them,  but  blindly,  praise  or  blame  indiscrim 
inately  ;  they  cannot  appreciate  the  many  and  noble 
longings  of  these  youths.  No  sympathy  and  the 

no 


Home,  the  Last  Resort 

home  stiflingly  small.  Yes,  they  love  each  other,  if 
there  can  be  any  love  without  respecl:  and  under 
standing.  These  bright  boys  and  girls  that  you  meet 
in  the  Ghetto,  and  who  do  so  much  towards  the  edu 
cation  of  slum  students  and  settlement  workers  — 
they  are  what  they  are,  not  because,  but  rather  in 
spite  of,  their  parents.  They  struggle  and  strive  up 
ward  alone  and  unaided,  and  also  ad:  as  missionaries 
of  civilization  in  their  homes.  They  beautify  their 
little  rooms  with  pictures  and  books  and  trifles  of 
art,  and  they  play  sweet  music — but  what  is  the  use, 
I  ask  you,  of  a  thought,  a  work  of  art,  a  poem,  a 
piece,  of  music,  if  you  cannot  share  it  with  those  who 
are  near  and,  somehow,  are  dear  to  you.  What  is  the 
use  of  these  things  if  you  cannot  share  them  with 
some  one?  And  what  is  to  be  done  when  there  is  no 
response  at  home  ?  These  children  are  so  lonely  in 
their  sorrows  and  in  their  joys,  and  the  home  is  so 
compressed,  so  'kleinlich,'  so  c  eng '  (only  these 
German  words  can  give  my  meaning).  How  terrible 
to  see  the  grandeur  of  the  universe  and  have  no  one 
to  tell  it  to!  How  awful  this  yawning  gulf  in  the 
Ghetto  !  If  I  say  harsh  and  bitter  things  it  is  be 
cause  I  have  looked  into  it  and  seen  an  appalling 
spectacle  of  crushed  hearts,  broken  spirits,  blighted 
hopes,  ruined  lives,  thwarted  beings  and  stifled 
souls.  I  have  looked  into  the  gulf,  and  this  is  why  I 
want  to  jest  about  the  holiest  things  in  the  world. 
"But  speaking  generally,  home  is  a  dangerous  place, 
and  he  was  a  wise  sea  captain  who  bribed  his  son 

in 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

— clandestinely  gave  him  $50 — to  run  away  from 
home.  While  away  the  youth  will  come  in  contact 
with  realities,  learn  what  the  world  is,  what  it  de 
mands,  and  finally  become  big  enough  to  build  his 
own  home.  Or,  he  will  come  back  to  be,  at  last, 
understood  and  respected.  But  let  him  go  forth. 
He  will  find  everywhere  pie  that  will  give  him 
dyspepsia  as  badly  as  that  which  mother  used  to 
make. 

"As  it  is,  the  home  covers  a  multitude  of  sins.  It  is 
very  faulty,  and,  above  all,  it  lacks  perspective.  The 
persons  within  it  are  not  seen  in  the  proper  light. 
They  are  either  underestimated  or  overjudged. 
Home  is  either  a  mutual  admiration,  or  a  mutual 
mutilation,  society.  Close  as  the  home  is  there  is  ever 
plenty  of  room  for  prejudice  and  illusion.  The  lights 
in  which  things  are  seen  are  artificial — and  so  are 
the  subjects.  If  the  child  is  a  mediocrity,  has  gradu 
ated  atthe  head  of  his  class  and  is  a  veritable  phono 
graph  for  remembering  fads,  he  is  at  once  regarded 
as  a  genius  and  not  a  little  time  and  effort  is  wasted 
on  him,  and  he  is  sent  forth  to  bore  and  prey  upon 
an  innocent  world ;  but  if  he  have  real  talent  and  show 
it  before  any  one  has  had  time  to  decide  that  he  has 
it,  his  wings  are  clipped  immediately  and  he  is  forth 
with  cast  down  and  discouraged.  But  there  is  always 
enough  appreciation  of  talent  to  discover  a  medi 
ocrity.  Home  is  the  nest  of  nefarious  nepotism,  and 
between  that  and  disparaging  prejudice,  countless 
youths  go  to  the  devil.  The  home  judgments  as  to 

112 


Home,  the  Last  Resort 

capacities,  aptitudes  and  abilities  are  tremendous. 
If  a  boy  is  color-blind,  he  is  born  to  be  a  painter ;  if 
he  has  no  sense  of  proportion,  why  architecture  is 
his  sphere ;  if  he  stammers,  he  is  placed  upon  a  chair, 
made  to  recite  pieces,  and  hailed  as  the  coming  ora 
tor  ;  if  he  is  a  little  bit  hard  of  hearing,  they  dedi 
cate  his  life  to  music;  if  he  has  absolutely  no  imagi 
nation,  they  say  history  is  his  field ;  they  try  to  make 
a  lawyer  of  him  when  he  has  a  wonderful  proclivity 
for  telling  the  truth,  a  merchant  when  he  has  a  fine 
sense  of  honesty  —  and,  by  heaven,  they  want  to 
make  a  minister  of  a  fellow  who  has  a  sense  of  humor ! 
One  must  leave  home  to  find  what  he  can  do;  and 
then  do  it ;  and  then  come  back  and  do  what  one  can 
for  the  education  and  welfare  of  his  parents.  Leave 
your  home  that  you  may  suffer  hardships  and  learn, 
and  then  come  back  to  cheer  the  old  folks  up.  For 
give  them  for  what  they  have  done  to  you  with  their 
sincerity  and  devotion  —  and  build  your  own  home. 
But  run  away  for  awhile  if  you  would  grow.  It  is  too 
narrow  and  the  atmosphere  is  not  healthy.  There  is 
ever  disparagement,  disagreement  and  fatal  favorit 
ism.  No  son  ever  walked  in  the  ways  of  his  father  ; 
no  father  ever  wanted  him  to  do  otherwise.  There  is 
always  some  one  at  home  who  knows  what  is  best  for 
you,  only  you  don't  want  to  mind.  But,  oh,  the  tyr 
anny  of  tears,  the  despotism  of  tender  words,  and 
the  fearful  sincerity  of  the  intentions  to  do  you  good ! 
All  inquisitors  have  been  sincere.  There  is  no  need 
of  arguing  that  there  is  something  radically  wrong 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

with  the  average  home.  Conditions  prove  it.  We  are, 
most  of  us,  running  away  from  home  to  get  ac 
quainted  with  things  as  they  are — running  away  to 
the  tune  of  c  Home,  Sweet  Home/  Even  as  we 
hum  the  sweet  melody,  we  go  forth  into  life  to  get 
some  education,  make  our  fortunes,  and  build  our 
own  homes.  Do  you  remember c  Die  Heimath/  and 
how  Magdais  tortured  by  home  and  loving  parents? 
It 's  the  same  argument  that  Sudermann  presented 
in  this  play,  and  again,  in  c  Die  Ehre/  he  showed  us 
phases  of  the  home." 

There  was  silence  for  a  space,  and  then  Keidansky 
continued:"  Homes  of  a  thousand  tender  memories 
clustering  from  the  cradle  up  through  all  the  paths 
of  life  ;  homes  of  kind  deeds  and  unforgotten  words; 
homes  wherein  love  and  freedom  are  wedded,  where 
in  the  most  beautiful  dreams  are  born ;  homes 
wherein  folks  look  into  each  other's  eyes  and  un 
derstand,  wherein  there  are  no  clouds  of  suspicion 
and  misunderstanding,  and  each  one  is  taken  at  his 
worth;  homes  unblighted  by  cold  wisdom,  wherein 
the  old  are  young  and  the  young  are  old — I  have 
heard  —  I  have  read — of  such  homes." 
The  pale  moonlight  streamed  into  the  open  window 
of  the  attic.  The  disorderly  piles  of  books,  heaps  of 
old  papers  and  magazines,  the  queer  little  pictures 
about  the  walls,  the  small  table  with  a  confusion  of 
all  things  mentionable  upon  it — all  these  presented 
a  strange  picture  in  this  dimness.  Keidansky  sat  on 
his  bed,  his  head  leaning  against  the  inclined  ceiling. 

114 


Home,  the  Last  Resort 

Itwas  this  sense  of  home  and  comfort  that  prompted 

his  remarks  on  the  subject.  In  the  dusk  the  faces  in 

the  little  pictures  seemed  to  listen  attentively  and 

change  expression  as  he  talked  so  fervidly.  I  sat  in 

the  only  chair  in  the  room — thinking,  wondering. 

I  felt  pensive. 

"  An  extreme  view,  eh  ?  "  my  friend  asked  after  a- 

while,  and  he  answered :  "  Perhaps  it  is. 

"  And  that  reminds  me/'  he  added,  "  that  you  once 

said  that  my  apparent  mission  in  life  is  to  throw 

stones.  Well,  granting  that  it  is,  who  shall  say  that 

my  task  is  not  as  important  as  any  ? " 

And  I,  drowsily,  absently,  also  asked,  "  Who  shall 

say  ?  " 


".5 


XIII 

A  Jewish  Jester 

THEY  were  telling  stones  of  Motke  Cha 
bad,  the  jester,  who  many  years  ago  lived, 
moved  and  had  his  joke  on  everybody  in 
the  city  of  Wilna,  where  he  was  well  known  (but  not 
so  well  liked)  as  the  troublesome  town  clown.  After 
nearly  everybody  in  one  group  at  Zarling's  had 
contributed  a  Chabad  yarn  to  the  general  entertain 
ment,  the  question  arose  as  to  whether  there  ever 
really  existed  such  a  personage  as  the  redoubtable 
Motke.  He  had  said  and  done  so  many  impossible 
things  that  it  became  a  matter  of  wonder  whether  he 
had  said  and  done  them  at  all.  So  daring  were  his 
utterances,  so  strange  his  adventures,  his  queer 
pranks  so  preposterous,  that  he  was  considered  by 
some  to  be  an  imaginary  character.  He  possessed 
those  vices  of  individuality  which  art  raises  to  the 
dignity  of  virtues.  He  had  become  a  tradition,  and 
so  a  matter  of  doubt  and  speculation.  This  last  was 
clear  at  our  discussion.  The  poet  suggested  that, 
whether  Motke  ever  existed  or  not,  he  was  certainly 
a  great  humorist.  But  even  this  did  not  satisfy  us. 
We  were  bent  upon  investigation.  The  medical  stu 
dent  made  a  motion  that  we  ask  Zarling,  who  is  a 
native  of  Wilna  and  at  least  has  known  some  one 
who  knew  Chabad;  but  here  Keidansky  protested. 
"  Do  not  ask  any  one,"  he  said,  "who  has  known,  or 

"7 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

known  of,  him  closely ;  his  description  would  be  too 
familiar,  intimate,  personal,  and  it  would  mar  and 
discolor  the  halo  that  tradition  had  cast  about  him. 
No,  do  not  ask  the  Czar,  for  he  knows  too  much 
about  him  and  those  who  were  near  our  hero  never 
understood  his  significance.  You  must  have  perspec 
tive  to  see  the  picluresque,  even  as  you  must  be  a 
poet  to  see  that  which  does  not  exist.  It  is  only  for 
the  blind  that  an  eye-witness  can  write  history.  Ar 
tistically  speaking,  the  closer  you  get  to  life  the  less 
you  know  about  it.  Realism  fails  because  it  takes 
the  existence  of  reality  for  granted.  Because  it  be 
comes  systematic  and  too  sure  of  its  subject.  Those 
who  have  known,  those  who  have  touched  elbows 
with  Chabad  or  his  brother's  grandchildren,  will  be 
accurate,  but  not  truthful.  To  describe  a  person  truly, 
one  must  include  all  its  infinite  possibilities  of  failure 
or  success  —  what  he  might  have  been,  what  he 
longed  to  be,  what  he  could  not  be  with  his  given 
conditions,  what  he  was  not,  what  he  was  believed  to 
be,  etc.,  and  he  who  has  decided  all  about  the  exacl: 
measure  of  a  person  cannot  fathom  his  possibilities. 
We  are  all  so  sure  of  the  conditions  of  contempo 
rary  life  that  it  will  take  a  succeeding  generation  to 
know  all  about  it. 

"  And  I  am  not  trying  to  hinder  the  work  of  this 
investigation,  because  it  may  prove  the  non-exist 
ence  of  Chabad.  That  would  not  matter  in  the  least, 
for  the  anecdotes  and  tales  that  are  being  circulated 
in  his  name,  and  his  storied  misadventures  and 

118 


A  Jewish  Jester 

gloried  misdeeds  create  him  in  fancy  and  he  exists 
in  imagination  —  which  is  all  that  is  necessary  for 
one  desiring  to  point  out  the  benign  and  malignant 
work  of  the  scoffer.  But  he  did  exist,  so  we  are  told 
by  those  who  have  known  some  one  who  knew  him 
intimately.  He  did  exist,  because,  while  we  have  su 
perfluous  virtues  to  attribute  to  all  sorts  of  saints 
who  did  live,  we  have  not  a  superfluity  of  humor 
to  ascribe  to  one  who  has  never  been.  Some  one 
must  have  given  birth  to  these  things  which  we  can 
all  admire  but  could  not  create.  Some  one  must 
have  been  witty  enough  to  think  these  things,  and 
reckless  enough  to  say  them.  We  all  have  the  con 
victions,  but  he  had  the  courage,  and  that  was  long 
ago. 

"  He  did  exist,  this  beggar,  braggart,  buffoon,  town- 
gossip,  dealer  in  wind  and  old  clothes,  match-maker, 
man  of  all  occupations  and  no  means  of  existence, 
practical  joker  and  general  jester  of  the  Ghetto  of 
Wilna;  for  such  he  was  and  as  such  he  did  his  good 
work.  He  was  an  outcast,  and  as  such  he  ministered 
to  the  sanity  of  society  that  hath  cast  him  out,  and 
kept  it  from  going  to  the  extremes  of  stupidity.  For 
so  it  is;  the  outcast  reduces  respectability  to  the 
ridiculous  ;  the  criminal  points  to  the  futility  of  the 
law  ;  the  rascal  shows  the  relativity  of  right ;  the  in 
fidel  reforms  and  enlarges  our  religion  ;  the  enemy 
of  order  advances  our  progress  ;  the  earthly  materi 
alist  proves  the  baselessness  of  all  our  idealisms  ; 
the  ascetic  demonstrates  the  stupidity  of  excess  ;  the 

119 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

prohibitionist  drives  us  to  drink  ;  the  strongest  ac 
cusation  convicts  the  accuser;  the  plaint  of  the  pes 
simist  makes  life  interesting ;  the  tyrant  gives  the 
greatest  lesson  in  freedom ;  men  write  books  to  prove 
what  fools  they  are,  and  the  jester  suggests  what  a 
tragic  farce  it  all  is.  So  many  efforts  in  life,  life  itself 
defeats  its  own  purpose.  It  is  the  undesired  that 
happens.  Help  comes  not  from  heaven  because  we 
expect  it  from  that  source.  They  who  break  laws  to 
suit  their  own  convenience  make  larger  laws  for  the 
welfare  of  society.  I  told  you  before  that  the  out 
casts  of  society  are  often  its  saviors. 
"  Now  be  in  order,  gentlemen.  I  have  the  floor  this 
time.  This  is  my  chance  to  get  killed.  Not  to  the 
point  ?  But  there  are  many  points  to  this,  and  if  I  have 
deviated  from  one  I  was  only  getting  so  much  nearer 
the  other.  I  was  trying  to  show  what  good  this  scoffer 
and  sycophant  has  done,  and  to  point  out  the  value 
of  the  jest.  God  created  the  world  and  he  saw  what 
he  was  'up  against/  so  he  smiled,  and  thus  humor 
was  born.  After  awhile  the  divine  flashlights  from  on 
high  began  to  play  hide-and-seek  in  the  unlit  cham 
bers  of  the  human  brain  ;  men  became  possessed  of 
the  sense  of  humor,  and  this  was  the  awakening  and 
dawn  of  civilization.  The  lightnings  of  the  mind 
which  suddenly  reveal  the  multitudinous  contradic 
tions  of  life,  the  mental  illuminations  which  cause 
the  immediate  recognition  of  the  incongruous,  the 
flash  which  makes  you  see  all  in  a  moment,  the  wide 
view  which  makes  the  universe  as  small  as  the  lan- 

120 


A  "Jewish  fester 

tern  in  your  hand,  the  whimsicality  of  thought  for 
ever  creating  unsuspected  analogies  and  unexpected 
comparisons,  the  sense  of  proportion  which  reduces 
all  things  to  what  they  are,  or  should  be,  truth  seen 
through  the  falsehoods,  the  sureties  discovered 
through  the  absurdities,  the  exactness  of  things 
measured  through  their  exaggerations,  miracles  of 
instantaneous  reasoning  and  feats  of  ingenious  de 
ductions,  the  intellectual  rapid  transit  between  the 
sublime  and  the  ridiculous,  which  keeps  you  from 
going  to  either  extreme,  the  magic  charm  which  keeps 
you  above  the  abysses  of  the  stupid,  small  and  great, 
the  bright  footlights  to  the  tragedy  of  life — such,  in 
brief,  is  humor.  And  what  else  is  there  that  is  so 
powerful  to  prevent  extravagances,  to  check  excess 
es,  to  arrest  all  sorts  of  frenzies,  to  curtail  abnormal 
credulity,  to  sober  all  kinds  of  intoxications  ?  In  the 
Ghetto,  as  everywhere  else,  humor  is  the  saving 
presence;  it  makes  existence  tolerable,  andpreserves 
the  sanity  of  the  little  journey  to  the  grave.  It  was 
dark  and  dismal  and  dreary  and  dingy  in  the  Russian 
Ghettos,  and  life  had  the  color  of  last  year's  snow, 
and  it  all  seemed  like  a  funeral  procession  in  a  sul 
try,  rainy  weather ;  from  without  we  were  harassed 
by  our  enemies  ;  from  within  we  were  harried  by  our 
friends,  our  guardians  of  sacred  law  and  traditional 
superstition;  it  was  sad  and  sorrowful,  and  so  we 
jested.  God  sent  us  some  sunshine  in  the  form  of 
such  scoffers  and  outcasts  as  Motke  Chabad,  and  we 
laughed.  We  laughed  and  forgot  to  weep.  Humor 

121 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

is  essentially  pathetic,  but  the  absence  of  it  is  tragic. 
Did  we  not  laugh  a  little  we  could  not  have  lived. 
Humor,  my  friends,  is  the  redeeming  grace.  If  you 
have  ever  been  very  serious  in  life,  why,  you  can 
laugh  it  down.  What  shall  we  do  to  be  saved  ?  Cul 
tivate  a  sense  of  humor. 

"How  could  we  have  lived  it  through  without  a 
Chabad?  With  a  smug,  smooth,  sullen,  soulless  re- 
speftability  that  moves  along  the  lines  of  least  dar 
ing  and  most  obedience,  that  cannot  do  any  good 
because  it  must  fulfil  the  *Taryag  Mitxves — the  313 
precepts — that  commit  all  sorts  of  prescribed  fol 
lies  on  earth  to  be  admitted  into  heaven,  that  di 
vides  its  time  between  praying  in  the  synagogue 
three  times  a  day  and  preying  upon  its  less  fortu 
nate  neighbors  the  rest  of  the  time,  with  a  mob  of 
skull-capped  numskulls  that  did  not  think  because 
its  mind  was  made  up — has  been  made  up  for  it  cen 
turies  ago — a  crowd  that  would  not  move  an  inch 
because,  as  is  insisted/ the  hell  that  was  good  enough 
for  our  fathers,  is  good  enough  for  us' — with  a  class 
of  good  people  like  that,  how  should  we  have  fared 
if  we  had  not  had  a  Motke  to  chastise  it  with  his  jests 
and  jeers  and  sneers  and  arrows  of  scorn?  He 
laughed  with  the  lowly  and  for  them ;  he  was  on  the 
side  of  reason  as  against  precept;  he  stood  for  natu 
ral  needs  as  against  supernatural  suppositions ;  he  was 
one  of  theunder-dogs,but  he  barked  loudly  for  their 
cause,  and  his  service  shall  not  be  forgotten  as  long 
as  we  have  a  sense  of  humour  left — as  long  as  we  are 

122 


ews        ester 

human!  Crude  were  his  jests,  and  clownish  most  of 
his  jokes;  did  he  have  the  talent  of  a  Heine  or 
Biirne,  he  could  not  be  what  they  were  without 
their  possibilities;  he  was  a  rough-hewn,  Ghetto- 
enclosed  child  of  darkness,  but  he  did  his  work  in 
his  own  way,  and  the  work  told  the  story. 
"God  has  spoiled  his  chosen  people  by  choosing 
them.  Many  of  them  are  stiff-necked,  stubborn,  re- 
aclionary  ;  and  they  do  countless  things  in  the  name 
that  would  not  countenance  it.  As  often  as  not  the 
powers  that  be  in  Jewish  communities  are  haughty, 
proud,  unjustly  aggressive,  and  they  prey  upon  and 
oppress  the  humbler  children  of  Israel.  It  is  well 
that  there  should  ever  be  some  one  constantly  to 
criticise,  castigate,  scold,  and  Carlyle  these  powers 
that  be  and  guard  and  interpret  the  law.  So,  in  a 
sense,  every  good  Jew  should  be  an  anti-Semite. 
Fie  should  beware  of  the  abuses  of  organized  bu 
reaucracy  by  leaders  of  the  community.  He  should 
be  opposed  to  the  inimical  doings  of  the  united 
many.  United  action  is  seldom  good  action.  The  in 
dividual  should  look  out  for  the  crowd.  In  organi 
zation,  every  one  gives  up  part  of  his  soul,  and  so 
even  organized  religions  are  soulless.  So  let  the  good 
Jew  keep  an  eye  on  what  the  leaders  in  Judaism  are 
doing,  and  to  make  sure  that  he  is  right,  let  him  put 
his  ear  to  the  ground  and  listen  to  the  voice  of  the 
rejected  prophet  and  blasphemous  jester. 
"  Many  stories  of  Chabad  have  been  told,  but  a  few 
things  may  be  mentioned  to  help  me  out  of  my  poor 

123 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

plight,  to  illustrate  my  meaning.  Thus,  once  upon  a 
stormy  day,  when  the  rain  and  thunder  and  light 
ning  became  fearful  and  awesome,  Motke  was  seen 
running  through  a  street  of  Wilna,  at  his  greatest 
possible  speed,  frantically  waving  his  hands.  A  few 
Jews  witnessing  this,  and  overtaking  him,  stopped 
him,  demanding  what  the  trouble  was. ( Such  terrible 
thunder  and  lightning/  said  he,  all  out  of  breath;  CI 
fear  me  that  the  Almighty  is  about  to  give  us  a  new 
Law!'  Here  is  a  blessed  bit  of  blasphemy  which 
strikingly  voices  the  protest  of  a  law-entangled,  rit 
ual-ridden,  tradition-tied  people  against  the  grind 
ing  yoke  of  the  Torah.  There  is  a  story  by  another 
Ghetto  jester,  driving  at  the  same  evil.  There  came 
a  time  once — so  the  story  runs — when  the  chil 
dren  of  Israel  became  weary  of  this  heavy  yoke, 
when  they  could  no  longer  live  up  to  the  laws  forced 
upon  them  amid  the  dramatic  effects  of  Sinai,  when 
they  could  no  longer  bear  all  the  sufferings  and  per 
secutions  that  living  up  to  these  laws  entailed,  and 
they  prayed  to  God  that  they  might  be  delivered 
from  the  Law,  that  they  might  be  permitted  to  re 
turn  to  him  the  Tables  of  Stone ;  and  the  Upper 
most  consented  to  take  it  all  back;  and  so,  upon  a 
day,  the  Jews  from  all  corners  of  the  earth  started 
on  ajourney  toward  Mount  Sinai, with  heavy-laden 
trains  and  ships  and  caravans  of  crolls  and  Biblical 
Commentaries.  They  came  from  all  parts  of  the 
world — from  East  and  West,  North  and  South, 
from  the  Occident  and  the  Orient;  there  were  all 

124 


A  Jewish  Jester 

manner  of  Jews,  and  they  came  by  all  means  of 
transportation,  but  they  all  labored  painfully  under 
their  tremendous  loads,  which  they  brought  to  be 
returned.  At  Sinai,  they  were  to  give  up  their  bur 
dens.  Arrived  there,  they  piled  up  their  great  packs 
of  'precept  upon  precept'  around  the  holy  eleva 
tion,  until  their  luggage  formed  a  mountain  larger 
than  Sinai.  When  the  Uppermost  appeared  in  his 
invisible,  yet  blinding  glory,  he  asked  for  the  mean 
ing  of  this  huge  mountain  of  books,  and  the  Jews, 
with  their  faces  to  the  ground,  cried, ' It  is  the  Law. 
Take  it,  O  Lord/  The  Lord — so  runs  the  story — 
was  astonished  at  this,  and  he  told  the  chosen  peo 
ple  that  only  ten  simple  rules  of  living  had  been 
given  to  them  at  Sinai.  He  knew  nothing  of  all 
these  volumes.  These  multitudes  of  laws  and  end 
less  commentaries  were  of  men's  making,  not  of  his 
giving.  They  were  empty  vaporings  of  idle  brains. 
He  refused  to  take  the  Law  back  in  its  present 
form.  So  the  Jews  journeyed  to  their  respective 
homes  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  wiser,  if  not  re 
lieved  of  their  burdens.  I  was  irresistibly  reminded 
of  this  story,  and  could  not  help  telling  it.  It  is  the 
product  of  a  far  more  subtle  brain  than  Chabad's 
was.  I  do  not  remember  the  name  of  the  author 
now,  but  he  and  Chabad  unwittingly  worked  for 
the  same  cause." 

A  boisterous  group  of  "dancing-school  fellows,"  as 
"the  intellectuals"  called  them,  entered  the  place, 
demanding,  at  the  point  of  their  pay,  something  to 

125 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

eat.  Keidansky's  audience  became  restless.  But  he 
persistently  kept  on,  despite  all  kinds  of  interrup 
tions. 

"  Religion,  as  you  all  know,  is  the  absence  of  the 
sense  of  humor,"  he  said.  "It  goes  to  all  sorts  of 
absurd  extremes.  Its  tower  commands  but  one  view 
of  life,  and  that  view  is  marred  by  emotion.  When 
faith  is  not  blind,  it  is,  at  least,  short-sighted.  The 
loyal  member  of  the  sect  is  not  a  seer.  Enthusiasts 
are  painfully  one-sided.  They  see,  or  rather  they 
feel,  but  one  side.  All  their  glances  are  on  one 
thing.  So  we  need  the  man  with  humor,  who  can 
see  all  things  in  one  glance.  The  jester  is  the  wide- 
eyed,  all-observing  fellow.  He  is  the  many-sided, 
much-seeing  man.  The  sense  of  humor  is  the  true 
sense  of  proportion,  and  it  has  been  rightly  urged 
that  only  the  humorists  have  perceived  and  painted 
life  as  it  is.  Only  they  have  presented  life  in  all  its 
largeness.  Of  course,  the  humorists,  who  merely 
chose  to  jest  and  not  write  great  tragedies,  did  not 
do  such  things,  but  they  were  ever  great  reformers. 
The  man  who  laughs  can  be  deeply  religious  with 
out  being  a  pietist:  he  can  be  deeply  religious,  yet 
behave  decently;  his  existence  is  a  sure  cure  for  hy 
steria.  He  infuses  a  little  reason  into  things  which 
prevents  the  sublime  from  becoming  ridiculous. 
"A  maggid,  or  preacher,  once  announced  that  he 
had  written  a  new  commentary  upon  thec  Hagadah.' 
'What!*  everybody  asked,  care  there  not  enough 
commentaries  already  in  existence?'  'Yes,'  said 

126 


A  jfewisb  y ester 

Chabad, '  but  he  cannot  make  a  living  out  of  those/ 
At  a  wedding  of  the  Jewish  aristocracy  of  Wilna, 
where  wealth  was  flaunted  pompously,  Motke  was 
asked  to  say  something  funny. f  All  the  rich  men  of 
Wilna  ought  to  be  hanged,'  he  said.  The  wealthy 
guests  were  scandalized.  'Wherein  is  the  joke?' 
they  asked.  'It  is  no  joke/  said  Motke. 
"In  the  synagogue  students  of  the  Talmud  were 
disputing  a  point  concerning  the  use  or  rejection  of 
an  egg  cwith  a  blood-drop'  in  it — a  point  to  which 
so  many  pages  of  the  holy  books  are  devoted. 
'Why  don't  you  throw  the  rotten  egg  out?'  said 
Motke,  who  stood  near.  'What's  the  use  of  wast 
ing  so  much  time?' 

"Once,  it  is  told,when  all  his  resources  were  at  an  end, 
Chabad  went  to  the  burial  committee  of  the  town, 
told  the  members  that  his  wife  had  died  and  asked 
for  the  means  of  performing  the  last  rites  and  cere 
monies.  He  accordingly  secured  a  few  roubles,  and 
when  the  committee-men  and  their  officials  came  to 
take  charge  of  the  body,  they  found  Motke,  his  wife 
and  children,  at  their  table  enjoying  a  bountiful  feast 
of  roasted  goose  and  things. 

"'Gentlemen/  exclaimed  the  master  of  the  house 
hold,  '  you  will  have  her ;  I  swear  to  you,  you  will  have 
her.  She  is  yours;  it  is  only  a  question  of  time/ 
"'Fare  thee  well,' said  Motke  one  day  to  a  rich  mer 
chant.  '  I  am  going  away,  and  all  I  want  of  you  is  a 
few  roubles  for  expenses/  His  request  was  refused. 
'Then  I  am  not  going,'  he  announced,  'and  you 

127 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

need  not  farewell/  Chabad  was  also  a  match-maker, 
and  his  humor  made  him  the  best  caricature  of  the 
institution.  Thus  once  he  came  to  a  young  man  to 
speak  of  a  match  with  a  certain  young  woman. f  Oh, 
but  she  is  lame/  protested  the  young  man.  'Yes/ 
Chabad  admitted, '  but  that  will  keep  her  home,  and 
prevent  her  from  going  out  too  much.*  '  But  she  is 
blind/  the  young  man  argued. '  So  much  the  better/ 
said  the  sbadcben;  'she  will  not  see  you  flirting  with 
other  women/  f  She  is  also  deaf/  insisted  the  youth. 
'That  is  certainly  fortunate/  was  the  reply;  cyou 
will  be  able  to  say  what  you  please  in  the  house/ 
'  But  she  is  also  dumb/  pleaded  the  victim/  '  Still 
better/  Motke  assured  him.  'There  will  always  be 
quiet  and  peace  in  your  home/  'But  she  is  also 
humpbacked!*  the  young  man  cried  out  in  anger. 
'Well,  well/  said  Chabad,  'do  you  expect  her  to  be 
without  a  single  fault  ? '  Now  I  am  almost  ready  for 
the  maledictions,"  said  Keidansky,  as  he  was  nearing 
the  close  of  his  argument,  but  I  was  suddenly  called 
away. 


128 


XIV 

What  Constitutes  the  Jew? 

ONE  day  when  I  made  a  perilous  ascent  to 
Keidansky's  garret,  barely  escaping  harm 
through  boxes  and  barrels  and  darkness  and 
things  in  the  way,  I  found  him  hard  at  work  on  an 
article — this  time  in  the  English  language — on 
"  What  Constitutes  the  Jew  ?  "  A  kind  and  inter 
ested  editor  to  whom  I  had  the  honor  of  introduc 
ing  him,  asked  my  discovery  to  write  on  the  subject, 
and  pleased  with  the  suggestion  he  took  it  up.  He 
motioned  to  an  up-turned  coal  scuttle  for  a  seat  as 
I  entered,  and  bade  me  take  a  Jewish  paper  and  be 
quiet.  While  I  waited  he  finished  his  essay.  "  I 
have  n't  any  time  to  talk  to  you,"  he  said,  looking 
disconsolate  and  running  his  long  fingers  through 
his  curly  black  hair:  "I  want  to  read  you  this  thing 
I  Ve  just  scribbled.  There  he  goes  again — "  he 
broke  off  in  despair,  as  the  old  man  in  the  next  attic 
began  to  chant  the  Psalms.  "  But  I  shall  read  louder 
than  he  does,"  said  Keidansky,  "I  pay  rent  here 
— sometimes — and  King  David,  the  fruit  vendor, 
in  there,  sha'n't  put  me  down."  I  listened,  and  he 
read  as  follows : 

"  And  after  we  have  read  about  him  in  the  comic 
weeklies,  have  seen  him  delineated  in  popular  works 
of  fiction,  have  observed  him  caricatured  in  various 
publications,  have  beheld  him  portrayed  on  the 

129 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

vaudeville  stage  and  have  heard  from  the  slum  stu 
dent  of  the  Ghetto ;  after  we  have  visited  a  fewmoney 
lenders — on  important  business — have  heard  our 
minister  talk  patronizingly  of  him,  telling  pityingly 
of  how  he  hath  a  great  past  and  possessed  more  than 
a  few  commendable  qualities,  and  of  how  he  was, 
alas !  doomed  to  damnation  because  he  would  not 
accept  the  religion  that  he  hath  given  to  the  world ; 
after  we  have  bought  clothing  in  one  of  his  stores, 
taken  a  personal  peep  at  the  Ghetto,  met  a  reformed 
rabbi,  conversed  with  a  distant  descendant  of  his 
people,  read  the  polite  charges  of  his  friend,  the  anti- 
Semite,  and  gone  down  and  made  beautiful  speeches 
before  him  prior  to  the  election ;  I  say  even  after  we 
have  done  these  things,  or  some  of  these  things  have 
happened  to  us,  we  must  still  ask  the  question :  What 
constitutes  the  Jew  ? 

"  For,  of  a  verity,  he  is  so  complex  in  his  character, 
so  heterogeneous  in  his  general  composition,  so  di 
verse  in  his  activities,  so  many  sided  in  his  worldly 
and  heavenly  pursuits,  so  widely  varying  in  his  ap 
pearance,  so  wonderfully  ubiquitous,  and  withal  such 
a  living  contradiction,  that  even  after  we  have  made 
the  above  painful  efforts  to  understand  him,  we  are 
still  at  a  loss  to  know — what  we  know  about  him. 
"He  represents  one  of  the  ancient  races  and  yet  is  as 
up  to  date  as  any ;  he  reaches  deepest  into  the  past 
and  looks  furthest  into  the  future ;  he  is  the  narrow 
est  conservative  and  the  most  advanced  radical ;  in 
religion  he  is  the  most  dogmatic,  sectarian,  station- 

130 


IPhat  Constitutes  the  "Jew  ? 

ary,  orthodox,  and  also  the  most  liberal  and  univer 
sal  reformer;  he  is  a  member  of  the  feeblest  and 
strongest  people  on  earth;  he  has  no  land  of  his  own 
and  he  owns  many  lands;  his  wealth  is  the  talk  and 
the  envy  of  the  world,  and  none  is  so  poor  as  he ;  his 
riches  have  ever  been  magnified  and  exaggerated, 
his  dire  poverty  ever  overlooked.  (As  poor  as  a 
Jew'  would  be  a  truer  simile  than  the  one  now  in 
use.  He  is  the  infamous  Shylock,the  money-lender, 
yet  he  borrows  as  much  and  more  money  than  he 
lends  to  others,  only  he  pays  his  debts  and  so  there 
is  no  talk  about  it ;  Christians  and  others  who  bor 
row  from  him  go  to  court,  denounce  him,  call  him 
Shylock,  and  give  him  several  pounds  of c  tongue/ 
though  he  asks  not  for  flesh,  because  it  is  not '  kosh 
er,'  and  because  whatever  he  is  he  is  never  cruel. 
Come  to  think  of  it,  what  a  fine  thing  the  Shylock 
story  has  ever  been  for  those  who  did  not  want  to 
pay  their  debts ! 

"He  loans  money  to  kings,  and  the  kings  oppress 
the  Jews ;  he  is  the  great  concentrator  of  wealth,  and 
he  is  the  Socialist  and  Anarchist  working  ardently 
for  the  abolition  of  the  private  ownership  of  wealth ; 
he  is  eminently  practical,  and  is  ever  among  the 
world-forgetting  dreamers,  'the  great  host  of  im- 
practicables ' ;  he  has  no  fine  arts  of  his  own,  and  he 
carries  off  the  highest  prizes  for  his  glorious  contribu 
tion  to  the  arts  of  the  nations.  Now  he  is  exclusively 
confined  to  his  own  Hebrew,  religious  lore,  believing 
that  beyond  it  there  are  no  heights  to  scale,  no  depths 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

to  fathom,  and  then  he  becomes  a  Georg  Brandes,  a 
great  interpreter  of  the  literatures  of  the  world ;  his 
own  literature  is  so  Puritanical,  so  religious  and 
chaste  that  there  is  hardly  a  single  love  song  to  be 
found  therein,  and  then  comes  a  Heinrich  Heine. 
He  is  the  slave  of  traditions  and  the  first  to  break 
them ;  persecute  him  and  he  will  die  for  the  religion 
of  his  fathers ;  give  him  freedom  and  he  will  pity 
them  for  their  crude  conceptions  and  applaud  In- 
gersoll ;  he  is  intensely  religious  and  the  rankest  in 
fidel;  he  condemns  the  theatre  as  being  immoral, 
and  he  is  the  first  to  hail  Ibsen  and  applaud  him, 
even  on  the  Yiddish  stage;  there  is  no  one  so  clan 
nish  and  so  cosmopolitan  as  he  is,  and  these  contrasts 
can  be  multiplied  to  the  abuse  of  time  and  space. 
"If,  then,  he  is  everything  and  to  be  found  any 
where,  to  be  seen  in  all  sorts  of  circumstances,  in  all 
walks  of  life  and  walking  in  so  many  diverse  ways, 
making  his  way  in  such  strongly  contrasting  condi 
tions,  how  shall  we  know  him?  How  shall  we  know 
what  constitutes  the  Jew?  He  does  not  always  abide 
in  the  Ghetto,  and,  things  are  coming  to  such  a  pass, 
that  he  rarely  has  the  old  Ghetto  appearance.  I  sup 
pose  if  our  dear  Mr.  Zangwill  had  his  own  way  he 
wouldfill  the  world  with  Ghettos.  He  couldusethem 
in  his  business.  But  perhaps  the  time  is  drawing  nigh 
when  we  must  have  the  books  of  Mr.  Zangwill  and 
other  works  of  such  excellence  to  preserve  the  most 
picturesque  life  of  a  unique  people  and  save  it  from 
oblivion.  The  Ghetto  walls  are  falling,  falling. 

132 


Constitutes  the  Jew  ? 

"Old-fashioned  folk,  like  other  things,  go  out  of 
fashion.  The  old-style  long  garb,  the  'capota,'  will 
take  itself  away  after  the  toga,  and  such  is  the  awful 
power  of  civilization  that  even  the  time-honored 
skull-caps  of  the  men  and  the  wigs  of  the  women  are 
vanishing  before  it.  Time,  with  its  scythe,  cuts  down 
even  the  curling  sidelocks  and  the  long  beards  dear 
to  tradition.  Up-to-date  fashion  is  a  democratic  ty 
rant,  an  expansionist  invading  and  permeating  all 
places  and  peoples.  So  we  cannot  count  on  these  ex 
ternals.  Physiognomy  is  another  thing  by  which  to 
be  misguided.  Other  outer  details  may  help  us  as 
much  as  medicine  can  help  the  dead  —  or  the  living, 
for  that  matter.  Then  there  are  names.  What's  in  a 
name?  An  opportunity  for  misunderstanding.  One 
cannot  even  know  himself  by  his  name.  All  these 
artificial  designations  do  not  designate. 
"  What,  then,  are  the  telling  traits,  the  conspicuous 
characteristics  by  which  the  typical,  representative 
Jew  may  be  known?  Now  I  am  blissfully  ignorant 
of  anthropology,  and  could  not  analyze  scientifi 
cally,  even  at  the  risk  of  being  destroyed  critically. 
But  through  a  certain  accident — anaccident  of  birth 
—  I  may  be  enabled  to  make  a  few  suggestions, 
which  I  will  offer  with  all  due  and  undue  apologies, 
of  course. 

"  First  and  foremost  I  should  mention  his  wonder 
ful  versatility ;  he  is  the  most  versatile  actor  in  this 
play  called  life.  He  has  acquired  this  versatility 
throughout  his  wanderings,  sufferings,  trials  and 

133 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

tribulations,  and,  together  with  his  prodigious 
adaptability,  it  constitutes  the  secret  of  his  sur 
vival.  Originally  a  being  of  the  highest  talent  with 
the  radiant  glow  of  the  Orient  upon  his  brow,  he 
had  walked  through  the  histories  of  many  nations, 
and  being  persecuted  by  all  peoples  who  recog 
nized  his  talent,  he  received  a  most  liberal  educa 
tion  in  the  school  of  sorrow.  Thus  his  abilities  were 
cultivated  and  he  learned  to  adapt  himself  easily  to 
all  circumstances  and  to  create  his  own  little  world 
wherever  he  pitched  his  tent. 

"  Mentally  alert,  keen  of  comprehension,  quick  to 
grasp  any  situation,  almost  too  shrewd  to  be  wise, 
practical  to  the  detriment  of  his  high  ideals,  calm, 
careful,  cautious,  calculating,  hopeful  in  the  face  of 
despair,  optimistic  to  a  discouraging  degree,  often 
too  regular  and  respectable  to  become  great;  in 
tensely  individualistic,  proud  of  his  past,  anxious 
about  the  future,  ever  devoted  to  his  cause,  self-ap- 
preciatory,  at  times  too  sure  of  his  capabilities,  con 
fident  in  the  ultimate  decency  of  things,  deeply  in 
love  with  life  —  these  are  among  the  qualities  that 
may  be  attributed  to  the  Jew. 

"His  isolated,  peculiar  and  purely  religious  life, 
cthe  spiritual  Palestine*  which  he  has  carried  along 
with  him  in  his  wanderings  through  the  darkness 
and  cold  of  the  Ghettos,  has  under  all  circumstances 
and  in  all  hazards  preserved  those  fine  domestic  and 
social  qualities  for  which  he  is  noted.  What  can  now 
be  said  about  his  domesticity,  his  love  of  home  and 


What  Constitutes  the  Jew  ? 

care  of  family ;  his  sobriety,  thrift,  peacefulness  and 
good  deportment,  the  readiness  with  which  he 
cares  for  his  poor,  his  public  spirit  in  the  interests 
of  his  community  —  wherever  that  may  be  —  his 
unequalled  kindness;  what  can  now  be  said  about 
these  things  would  be  mere  repetition;  but  these 
are  nevertheless  some  of  the  undisputed  qualities 
which  constitute  the  Jew.  Believing  himself  chosen 
of  God,  he  has  strong  faith  in  the  part  he  plays, 
the  work  he  does,  and  the  mission  he  is  to  per 
form  with  his  being.  And  like  others  who  have 
much  faith  in  themselves,  he  has  abundance  of  con 
ceit.  But  let  us  not  call  it  that.  'Sublime  egotism* 
sounds  so  much  better,  and  besides,  the  line  of  de 
marcation  between  the  two  is  so  fine  that  it  does  not 
exist.  The  Jew  is  strongly  individualistic  in  his  so 
cial  tendencies,  and  for  that  reason  often  so  progres 
sive.  He  dares  to  deviate  from  the  trodden  path.  He 
is  not  always  in  harmony  with  the  rest  of  his  commu 
nity  in  which  there  is  from  time  to  time  much  dis 
cord —  discord  that  sometimes  amounts  to  war.Thus 
the  persecution  of  the  Jews  often  begins  at  home. 
His  receptive  mental  attitude  often  brings  him  into 
the  ranks  of  the  most  radical,  despite  his  traditions, 
which  would  hold  him  back. 

"  He  has  talent  to  waste,  and  much  of  it  is  really 
wasted  because  he  lacks  opportunity  for  cultivation 
and  frequently  has  not  the  required  concentration 
and  application.  Perhaps  it  is  better  so ;  for  if  all 
Jewish  talent  was  brought  out  in  the  various  forms 

J35 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

of  greatness,  what  would — what  would  the  anti- 
Semites  not  say?  They  would  say  that  the  Jews  have 
stolen  their  talents.  For  anti-Semitism  is  the  cry  of 
despair  of  defeated  mediocrity,  or  it  is  the  plaint  of 
the  blinded  Christian  maddened  byjealousy  because 
he  has  been  beaten  by  the  wandering  Jew  in  his  own 
game  of  trade,  commerce,  politics,  or  art.  But  the 
Jew  is  kind,  his  kindness  is  unsurpassed,  and  the 
Hebrew  line  in  which  his  people  are  called  c  merci 
ful  sons  of  the  merciful '  is  literally  true.  He  pities 
the  anti-Semite  as  he  pities  all  who  suffer  and  who 
are  in  want  of  the  good  things  and  the  good  quali 
ties  of  life. 

"  The  Jew  is  a  great  possibility.  Sensitive  of  and 
susceptible  to  all  things,  to  the  very  color  of  the  at 
mosphere  around  him,  with  a  soul  sharpened  by 
sorrow  and  a  mind  of  keenest  understanding,  he  can 
become  anything  and  everything,  assimilate  himself 
with  any  and  all  conditions,  and  illustrate  life  with  a 
new  meaning  or  adorn  it  with  a  worthy  work.  He  is 
like  unto  an  ^olian  harp  on  which  various  breezes 
play  various  tunes. 

"His  beautiful,  consecrated,  peaceful,  religious, 
home  life,  the  life  wherein  the  home  is  a  synagogue 
and  the  synagogue  is  a  home,  this  on  the  one  hand 
and  the  strange  world  with  its  hard  realities,  with  its 
stumbling-blocks  and  stunning  blockheads,  on  the 
other,  have  created  in  the  Jew  a  striking  two-sided- 
ness,  a  kind  of  duality  and,  if  I  may  so  call  it,  a  sort 
of  conciliation  between  the  ideal  and  the  real.  This 


What  Constitutes  the 

forms  another  trait  by  which  you  may  tell  him.  Thus 
he  is  very  practical,  and  still  dreams,  hopes  for  the 
restoration  of  Palestine,  and  loves  his  home  and  his 
country  wherever  he  abides.  He  is  an  ardent  Zionist 
and  a  good  citizen  at  the  same  time. 
"Murder,  or  any  other  kind  of  talent,  will  out.  Say 
rather  that  talent  will  out  even  if  it  must  come  in  the 
shape  of  murder,  so  to  speak.  People  capable  of  the 
highest  good  and  noblest  greatness  are  often  cast 
down  into  the  abyss  of  degradation  by  their  loving 
neighbors,  or  other  circumstances.  People  must 
live,  you  know,  and  therefore  they  often  live  a  living 
death.  Not  permitted  to  live  rightly  and  happily,  they 
still  must  live  somehow.  The  instinct  of  self-preser 
vation  preserves  much  evil,  but  life  is  life.  Those 
who  have  talent  and  are  not  permitted  to  use  it  for 
the  good  of  all,  use  it  for  their  own  temporal  good, 
regardless  of  the  consequences.  The  thought  that  I 
wish  to  leave  here  as  we  part  with  the  Jew  is  :  That 
they  who  walk  in  darkness  find  the  ways  that  are 
dark.  Over-praise  is  damning,  and  I  want  to  be  care 
ful.  The  Jew  has  on  the  whole  been  far,  far  better 
than  he  has  been  permitted  to  be — and  this,  too,  is 
one  of  the  charges  against  him.  He  is  a  graduate  of 
the  school  of  sorrow,  with  the  highest  honors. 
"  What  is  that  story  about  the  man  who  in  his  long 
quest  after  the  ideal,  at  last  found  her  in  the  woman 
who  has  suffered? 
"  Well,  here  is  the  Jew,  a  being  who  has  suffered." 


XV 

The  Tragedy  of  Humor 

OMETIMES,"  said  Keidansky,  "it  is 
grossly  immoral  to  live  up  to  your  highest 
principle."  And  in  reply  to  my  half-uttered 
protest,  he  quickly  continued:  "  No,  no;  I  am  not 
jesting.  It 's  a  sad  business,  this  jesting  about  the  hu 
man  tragedy.  For  what  is  it  but  mocking  each  other's 
wounds,  laughing  at  one  another's  infirmities  in  this 
great  lazaretto,where  we  are  all  pitiful  patients  ?  What 
is  it  but  scoffing  at  our  sores,  grinning  at  our  gashes, 
deriding  our  diseases,  laughing  at  our  own  weak 
nesses?  No,  I  am  not  jesting,"  and  the  speaker  eyed 
me  strangely  as  he  looked  up  from  his  manuscript 
on  the  little  table  in  Machtell's  cafe. 
"  Beneath  the  levity  is  lead,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Be 
hind  all  the  fun  is  crushing  failure.  Behind  all  the 
satire  is  sorrowful  shortcoming.  Behind  the  smile  is 
a  searing  smart.  Grief  lurks  in  the  grin.  Through  all 
the  drollery  despair  peers  forth,  and  there  is  noth 
ing  more  lugubrious  than  laughter.  Comedy  is  made 
up  of  error,  failure,  confusion,  misunderstanding, 
misfortune,  misdirected  efforts  and  wasted  energy. 
Whenever  error  ends  fatally  it  is  called  tragic,  but 
that  is  not  the  worst.  The  real  tragedy  is  not  the  play 
that  ends  with  the  death  of  the  leading  characters, 
but  the  one  in  which  they  are  condemned  to  struggle 
and  live  on  and  laugh  and  be  laughed  at.  Each  one 

139 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

of  us  is  his  own  caricature.  There  is  so  little  to  do, 
yet  we  all  overdo  it.  We  all  reduce  our  lives  to  ab 
surdities.  Our  efforts  exaggerate  their  importance 
and  betray  our  barbarities. 

cc  We  overdraw  our  characters  and  all  our  lifetime 
suffer  in  our  own  estimation.  The  more  serious  we 
are  the  more  extravagant  is  the  farce.  As  we  creep 
along  the  roads,  the  shadows  we  cast  mock  and  men 
ace  us. 

"  We  are  poor  debtors,  all.  With  infinite  intentions 
in  a  world  of  infinitesimal  possibilities,  our  efforts 
constantly  caricature  and  cartoon  our  aims.  All  our 
works  are  filled  with  comic  illustrations  galore.  We 
make  them  ourselves,  and  they  overshadow  our 
works.  Did  you  ever  see  any  one  fall  on  the  street 
and  a  lot  of  lookers-on  laugh?  Well,  that  is  in  a 
measure  the  history  and  interpretation  of  humor. 
"  We  seek  and  do  not  find ;  we  fight  and  do  not  con 
quer;  we  play  and  do  not  win;  we  attempt,  but  do 
not  achieve;  we  aspire  and  do  not  attain;  we  desire 
and  are  not  gratified;  we  long  for  light  yet  grope  on 
in  darkness ;  we  struggle  and  are  defeated ;  we  strive 
for  salvation  and  discover  it  to  be  a  mere  sham ;  our 
labor  is  lost,  our  love  is  not  returned,  our  devotion 
is  not  understood,  our  wings  are  broken  at  the  point 
of  flying,  all  our  yearnings  are  in  vain;  and  then,  the 
newspaper  humorist  writes  half  a  column  of  pointed 
jottings  out  of  these  things;  or  else  the  literary  come 
dian  will  prepare  a  series  of  funny  papers.  Do  you 
understand  now  what  an  appalling,  grim  and  grue- 

140 


The  Tragedy  of  Humor 

some  spectacle  there  is  behind  all  these  little  jests  ? 
And  how  tragic  it  is  for  the  humorist  who  sees  it  all? 
They  say  that  a  Scotchman  laughs  on  the  third  day 
after  he  hears  a  joke.  It  does  not  take  so  long  to  find 
that  there  is  nothing  to  laugh  at.  It  is  all  so  sad. 
Think  what  a  tremendous  tragedy  the  funny  para- 
grapher  sums  up  in  a  few  lines  and  sells  to  '  Puck  ' 
for  $2.98.  Come,  take  up  a  column  of  comicalities 
in  any  publication  and  see  what  is  at  the  bottom  of 
every  jest.  What  is  it  about?  Is  it  about  a  man  and 
a  woman  linked  together  by  law,  with  a  Chinese  wall 
of  misunderstanding  between  them,  c  so  strangely 
unlike  and  so  strongly  attached  to  each  other '  that 
it  is  hell  for  both  of  them  ?  Or,  is  it  about  a  woman 
who  wears  her  life  away  in  the  farce  of c  Vanitas  Vani- 
tatum?'  Is  it  about  the  greedy  mercenary  who  loses 
his  soul  to  gain  the  world?  Or  is  it  about  one  who 
gives  up  the  world  to  gain  nothing  ? 
"  Is  it  about  an  enthusiastic  youth  who,  to  escape  the 
materialism  of  his  surroundings,  jumps  from  the  fry 
ing-pan  into  Bohemia;  or  is  it  about  a  philosopher 
who,  gazing  at  the  stars,  falls  into  a  mud  puddle?  Is 
it  about  the  poet  starving  in  a  garret,  or  is  it  about 
the  artist  lost  in  the  quest  of  the  unattainable  ?  Is  it 
about  the  moral  principle  trampled  under  foot  be 
cause  of  the  material  advantage,  or  is  it  about  the 
low  life  of  him  who  longs  for  the  highest  ?  What  is 
it  about?  Is  it  about  a  man  who  bleeds  and  a  woman 
who  laughs,  or  is  it  about  beings  who  sell  themselves 
for  life  with  promises  to  love,  honor,  cherish  and 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

protect  ?  Is  it  about  some  one  groping  in  darkness, 
grappling  with  the  impossible,  or  is  it  about  a  great 
republic  gone  mad  over  the  visit  of  an  effete  repre 
sentative  of  monarchy?  Perhaps  it  is  about  a  bright 
American  girl  in  quest  of  a  titled  idiot,  or  else  about 
a  being  so  degraded  that  he  is  in  mortal  fear  of  work 
and  has  a  horror  for  soap  !  It  may  be  about  medi 
ocrity  dreaming  of  talent,  of  failures  chasing  the 
phantoms  of  success,  of  fading  beauty,  waning  love, 
of  the  stumbling  of  the  blind,  or  of  any  and  all  the 
confusions  of  error  and  the  thousands  of  misunder 
standings  of  the  home  and  of  people  who  are  near 
and  fail  to  be  dear  to  each  other.  The  list  is  too  long. 
It  can  never  be  exhausted.  But  at  the  bottom  of  any 
one  of  the  jests,  old  or  new,  you  will  find  an  excru 
ciating  little  tragedy.  It  is  all  so  sad,  sorrowful  and 
depressing.  The  humor  of  the  situation  ?  Say  rather 
the  tragedy  of  the  case. 

"  And  to  look  behind,  to  peer  through  the  pano 
rama,  to  see  all  this,  to  have  a  sense  of  humor  and 
to  have  it  bad,  is  not  such  a  cheerful  thing  as  it  is 
thought  to  be,  for  it  is  also  a  sense  of  our  hopeless 
ness.  It  is  a  sad  business,  this  jesting  about  the  hu 
man  tragedy — or  the  human  farce.  In  other  words, 
it  is  to  see  the  futility  of  all  our  efforts,  the  failure  of 
all  our  fighting,  the  uselessness  of  our  aspirations, 
the  emptiness  of  our  aims,  the  vanity  of  our  striv 
ings,  the  nothingness  of  it  all.  Life,  with  all  its  faults 
and  foibles  and  failures,  with  all  its  incongruities, 
irreconcilables,  clashes  and  unfitnesses,  stretches  out 

142 


The  Tragedy  of  Humor 

before  you  as  just  so  much  material  for  sardonic  sat 
ire.  Scrambling,  squabbling,  scurrying,  seething, 
squally  squads  and  crowds  of  humanity,  how  grue- 
somely  grotesque  it  all  is  and  how  ludicrous  !  With 
all  its  heroics,  brave  deeds  and  still  greater  brava 
does,  with  all  its  gloried  wonders  and  wonderful 
achievements,  with  all  its  glorious  boasts,  lofty  hopes 
and  superb  masteries,  with  all  our  arts  and  philoso 
phies,  humanity  and  the  whole  world  seems  to  me 
like  a  swarmingmole-hill,and  at  times  moves  me  to 
nothing  but  to  laughter.  It  is  so  ridiculous,  all  the 
mimicry  of  the  whole  microcosm.  Tell  me,  have  you 
ever  been  seized  by  a  sense  of  the  utter  absurdity  of 
it  all,  so  that  you  laughed  and  laughed  until  there 
were  tears  of  blood,  almost,  in  your  eyes? 
"  I  wonder  if  you  know  what  it  is  to  have  a  mocking 
demon  within  you  to  laugh  and  leer  at  everything 
you  do,  at  every  step  you  take,  at  your  best  deeds, 
finest  words,  greatest  strides,  noblest  endeavors. 
Imagine  a  voice  that  at  every  turn  of  the  road  —  es 
pecially  when  you  act  your  grandest,  talk  your  loud 
est,  achieve  your  highest — that  at  every  turn  of  the 
road  exclaims:  'How  absurd,  how  silly  of  you!' 
Imagine  a  state  of  mind  when  all  is  farce  around  you 
and  your  own  caricature  is  your  constant  companion. 
Such  things  happen  to  some  people,  and  to  them 
everything  is  so  unreal,  so  absurd,  so  stupid;  the 
greatest  events,  the  sublimest  utterances,  are  ever  so 
laughable.  The  more  seriously  the  people  play  their 
parts  the  more  ridiculous  the  performance  seems. 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

The  greater  the  tragedy  the  more  laughter.  What  is 
so  funny  as  Hamlet's  soliloquy?  What  are  so  laugh 
able  as  the  ravings  of  Job  ?  And  so  it  sometimes  feels 
with  the  other  sublimely  sad  things  that  have  been 
written.  The  moving  finger  writes,  and  the  mocking 
voice  within  laughs — laughs  at  everything  and  you 
can  take  nothing  seriously.  You  take  up  the  best, 
the  most  pathetic  things  you  have  written  yourself, 
and  even  these  make  you  smile.  Such  things  have 
been  said  before  and  they  were  absurd  and  out  of 
place — in  the  first  place.  Whatever  you  do  you  hear 
the  mocking  voice  from  within  say : c  Silly  creature, 
those  things  have  been  done  before,  and  they  have 
only  led  fools  to  their  dusty  death/  You  whisper  the 
sweetest  things,  prompted  by  love  to  your  lady  fair, 
and  the  voice  from  within: c Silly  fool,  these  things 
have  been  said  before  and  the  course  of  true  love 
never  did  run  long/  You  have  a  feeling  that  it  is  all 
histrionic,  all  acting,  all  farce,  and  that  we  are  all 
overdoing  our  parts  tremendously.  Strutting,  swag 
gering,  blustering,  bombastic  swashbucklers  all.  It 
is  not  life.  It  is  an  historical  novel.  It  will  sink  into 
nothingness. c  O,  Tbor^du  Tbor,duprablender  ^Thorl ' 
Do  you  remember  Bret  Harte's  parody  on  Hugo's 
fLes  Miserables'P  So  easily  is  the  sublime  tipped 
over  and  made  ridiculous.  'T  is  but  a  slight  step  from 
pathos  to  bathos.  But  wait  until  I  address  this  letter 
to  the  New  York  c  Abend  Blatt/  Abe  Cahan  came 
over  here  and  spoke  for  the  Socialists  this  afternoon, 
so  I  wrote  the  thing  up.  He  is  in  the  other  room  with 

144 


The  Tragedy  of  Humor 

that  blatant  crowd  of  Jewish  actors.  They  are  taking 
him  to  task  for  one  of  his  reviews  in  the  c  Arbeiter 
Zeitung'  of  a  recent  performance  of  theirs.  They 
never  know  exactly  what  a  critic  means  except  when 
he  does  not  criticise.  They  are  to  give  here  Gordin's 
( Jewish  King  Lear'  to-morrow  night.  You  don't 
know  Cahan?  He  is  one  of  the  brightest,  biggest 
men  in  our  movement.  I  come  in  here,"  Keidansky 
explained,  "because  these  actors  are  so  ignorant  of 
the  conventions,  simple  and  natural,  and  I  like  them 
for  it. 

"There  is  a  story  by  J.  L.  Peretz,"  Keidansky  con 
tinued,  after  he  had  folded  up  and  addressed  his 
communication,  "  that  I  want  to  tell  you  apropos  of 
what  I  have  been  saying.  Peretz  is  one  of  the  literary 
masters  of  to-day,  but  he  writes  in  Yiddish,  so  the 
world  misses  his  greatness.  The  story  is  about  a  re 
former,  a  revolutionary,  an  idealist.  He  addresses  a 
meeting  in  behalf  of  his  cause,  speaks  fervently,  pas 
sionately,  'spits  fire/  waves  a  sharp  sword  at  his  au 
dience  and  makes  a  ringing  appeal  for  the  truth.  In 
the  room  where  he  speaks  there  is  a  mirror.  Acci 
dentally  he  looks  into  it.  He  sees  himself.  His  enthu 
siasm  leaves  him  at  once,  his  fervor  vanishes,  he  loses 
his  power  of  speech,  becomes  calm,  indifferent,  and 
finishes  his  oration  in  disgust.  He  no  longer  feels 
the  saint  and  hero  he  felt.  While  speaking  so  ex 
citedly  he  looked  like  a  murderer  in  the  mirror. 
After  this  he  has  an  unearthly  dream  about  the 
part  of  hell  that  is  allotted  to  reformers.  When  he 

HS 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

wakes  up  he  receives  a  postal  card  asking  him  to 
come  to  another  meeting  of  the  revolutionists.  He 
immediately  burns  the  card.  This  is  giving  but  the 
faintest  outlines  of  the  story,  but  you  see  Peretz, 
like  Heine,  also  has  the  sense  of  humor  developed 
to  a  tragic  extent — to  the  extent  of  seeing  the  absur 
dity,  futility  and  irony  of  it  all — even  our  grandest 
efforts. 

"  Yes,  so  it  seems  to  some  eyes,  and  so  it  is  at  least  to 
those  who  see  it  so.  After  all,  what  is  it?  A  cry  and  a 
struggle  and  a  sigh,  a  flash  of  light  and  a  streak  of 
dawn  and  darkness,  and  then  we  stand  by  the  grave 
and  weep  for  the  dead  that  the  living  may  see  our 
tears.  Ah,  the  helplessness  and  hopelessness  of  it  all; 
the  desolation  and  despondency,  the  thoughts  that 
paralyze  the  mind  and  stifle  the  soul;  all  things  out 
of  joint,  out  of  proportion,  and  Fate  cries  out  to  you 
in  the  slang  phrase  cyou  don't  fit!'  Ah,  the  humor 
of  the  entire  procession  and  the  deep  tragic  back 
ground  behind  it.  Seek  and  you  will  find,  and  when 
you  find  you  shall  not  want  it.  Wealth  makes  us 
weary  of  it.  Fame  brings  her  wreath  and  finds  her 
poet  dead.  Faith  consoles,  but  we  have  the  con 
sciousness  all  along  that  we  are  sick  and  are  taking 
medicine.  c  Love  grows  hate  for  love's  sake  and  life 
takes  death  for  guide/  Love?  Have  ever  two  souls 
come  near  each  other?  Those  whom  we  love  most 
understand  us  least.  Happiness?  The  art  of  finding 
happiness  is  one  of  the  lost  arts.  No  one  is  ever  con 
sciously  happy.  Knowledge  is  almost  positive  proof 

146 


The  Tragedy  of  Humor 

that  we  cannot  know.  With  it  we  are  more  puzzled 
than  we  were  without  it.  The  last  word  of  science  is 
'wait.'  Whatdoweknow?  Moses  went  up  to  heaven, 
but  God  refused  to  be  interviewed.  The  people,  like 
the  modern  editor,  insisted  upon  a  story  and  so  we 
have  the  Bible.  But  science  and  the  higher  criticism 
has  interrupted  our  reading  and  spoiled  the  pleasure 
of  it.  What  do  we  know?  Even  Professor  Daniel  De 
Leon  does  not  know  everything.  Man  asks  ques 
tions,  investigates,  'und  ein  Narr  wartet  aut  Ant- 
wort'  Life  contains  more  emptiness  than  anything 
else.  Life  is  a  long  wait  for  that  which  does  not  come. 
Is  life  worth  living?  'Tis  not  worth  while  asking  the 
question." 

"  If  that  is  so,  or  seems  so,"  I  hazarded  the  question, 
"then  why  be  here?" 

"Why,  to  see  it  all,  to  enjoy  the  tragedy,"  Kei- 
dansky  answered  with  swift  enthusiasm.  "  I  would 
not  advise  my  best  friend  to  commit  suicide.  Such 
an  exciting  farce.  What  would  life  be,  what  would 
art  be  without  the  tragic  elements  in  it?  It's  great! 
But  I  began  to  tell  you  why  it  is  sometimes  grossly 
immoral  to  live  up  to  your  highest  principles,  when 
my  train  of  thought  was  wrecked.  Some  other  time. 
Come,  let's  go  into  the  other  room  and  I  '11  intro 
duce  you  to  the  players  and  to  Comrade  Cahan  —  if 
he  is  still  alive." 


XVI 

Immorality  of  Principles 

YES,  I  have  promised  to  tell  you  why  it  is 
sometimes  grossly  immoral  to  live  up  to 
your  highest  principles.  1 1  was  a  rash  prom 
ise,  yet  I  shall  try  to  make  it  good.  And  though  it 
was  several  weeks  ago,  I  am  more  than  ever  in 
clined  to  think  the  same  way." 
Thus  spake  Keidansky  when  I  reproachfully  re 
minded  him  of  a  former  utterance. 
"  There  are  the  missionaries,"  he  said, "  who  go  forth 
among  peaceful,  law-avoiding  savages  to  force  upon 
them  a  religion  that  has  outlived  its  usefulness,  a  re 
ligion  that  has  not  prevented  them  from  doing  such 
an  immoral,impolite  thing.They  go  forth  to  promul 
gate  the  truth  of  which  they  are  not  sure.  They  in 
vidiously  invade  the  premises  of  goodly  primitive 
people,  and  ruthlessly  trample  upon  their  traditions, 
beliefs,  superstitions  and  feelings.  We  shut  people 
out  of  our  country,  and  we  send  missionaries  to  offer 
them  free  admission  or  standing-room  in  our  heaven. 
Heedless  that  their  bodies  are  starving,  we  come  and 
ask  to  let  us  save  their  souls.  We  forget  that  they 
have  a  right  to  their  religion,  to  their  way  of  non 
thinking,  to  take  the  medicine  they  like ;  that  their 
method  of  salvation  is  best  for  them, 

'That  human  hopes  and  human  creeds 
Have  their  roots  in  human  needs.' 
149 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

We  forget  that  they  have  just  as  much  a  right  to 
wear  their  mental  corsets  as  we  have  to  wear  ours, 
or,  if  you  wish,  that  their  beliefs  are  as  true  to 
them  as  ours  are  to  us.  We  forget  that  they  speak 
to  God  in  their  own  language.  We  go  forth  among 
them  and  mock  at  all  that  is  holy  and  dear  to  their 
hearts. 

"Of  course,  missionaries,  like  all  agitators,  are  de 
voted  people,  living  up  to  their  very  highest  prin 
ciples,  and  we  all  mean  well ;  but  this  sort  of  business, 
this  invasion  and  utter  disregard  for  others,  is  to  me 
grossly  immoral.  And  to  court  and  minister  to  the 
needs  of  cannibals  and  brigands  is  too  much  altru 
ism  on  our  part,  and  that  excessive  phase  of  it  is 
wicked  and  hurtful." 

"  But,"  I  protested,  "is  not  the  legitimate  advocacy 
of  ideas  justifiable  ? " 

"Yes,"  said  Keidansky,  "the  legitimate  advocacy  of 
ideas.  There  are  those  who  on  one  day  of  the  week 
would  turn  our  cities  into  cemeteries,  who  would 
stifle  our  spirits  and  starve  our  souls,  who  on  that 
day  deny  us  music  and  mirth  and  song — think  it 
a  sin  to  smile,  wicked  to  be  happy,  and  a  crime  to 
make  merry.  If  they  could  reach  the  sun,  they 
would  stop  it  from  working  overtime  and  shining 
on  the  Lord's  day;  yet  if  the  sun  should  ever  reach 
them,  their  piety  would  not  cast  such  a  pall  over 
the  community.  Yes,  I  know;  but  listen.  Have  pa 
tience.  Patience  is  a  Christian  virtue,  which  Chris 
tians  have  forced  upon  Jewish  money-lenders.  I 

150 


The  Immorality  of  Principles 

know  that  there  are  many  people  to-day  who  have 
quite  a  high  opinion  of  the  Almighty,  believing  that 
He  loves  light  and  sunshine,  laughter  and  joy,  and 
glories  in  the  happiness  of  every  living  thing, 
down  to  the  humblest  worm.  But  I  am  speaking  of 
the  others — those  who  deny  the  pleasure  of  every 
thing  except  self-denial;  for  whom  the  only  laws  of 
life  are  the  blue  laws. 

"Just  now  our  city  is  being  held  up  by  the  police, 
and  at  the  point  of  a  club  told  to  be  good  and 
pious  and  religious.  We  are  told  not  to  breathe,  or 
sigh,  or  sneeze,  or  smile,  or  show  any  signs  of  life 
on  Sunday.  Orders  to  stop  the  circulation  of  our 
blood  on  that  day  have  not  yet  been  issued,  but 
everything  comes  to  those  who  wait — every  evil 
comes  to  those  who  have  over-zealous  pietists  among 
them.  To  heaven,  or  be  damned.  It  is  a  case  of 
your  adherence,  or  your  life.  You  must  be  killed, 
or  cured.  Now  in  this  disregard  of  disbelievers,  the 
narrowness  of  vision  and  hurtful  overzeal,  I  dis 
cern  something  immoral. 

"Yet  it  is  a  matter  of  principle  to  spread  whatever 
gospel  one  has  been  captured  by.  Personally,  I  have 
never  been  so  tortured  by  any  as  by  those  people 
who  wished  to  save  me,  and  out  of  justice  to  them, 
I  must  say  that  they  tortured  me  according  to  their 
highest  principles.  It  must  be  admitted  that  there  is 
an  amount  of  good  and  pleasure  for  the  agitator,  in 
volved  in  agitation,  yet  his  work  cannot,  generally, 
be  called  moral  on  the  ground  that  it  conduces  to 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

happiness,  because  he  is  only  one,  and  those  whom 
he  is  molesting  to  save  are  many. 
"And  so  many  of  those  who  sacrifice  and  abnegate 
and  deny  themselves,  who  neglect  nature,  ignore 
the  laws  of  their  being,  emaciate  their  bodies  and 
starve  their  souls,  is  it  not  immoral  of  them  to  weak 
en  their  constitutions,  minds  and  spirits,  and  dimin 
ish  their  power  for  positive  good  in  the  world?  In 
the  end,  are  not  many  of  them  miserably  misled  by 
their  highest  principles? 

"If  he  loseth  the  world,  what  shall  it  profit  a  man 
that  he  gaineth  his  soul?  Of  what  earthly  use  is  a 
soul,  without  a  wicked  world  to  use  it  in?  To  what 
good  is  a  soul  without  all  the  opportunities  of  los 
ing  it? 

"Alone  in  the -mountains,  far  from  the  madding 
crowd,  it  is  easy  to  be  sane  and  soulful  and  saintly ; 
but  to  me,  every  effort  to  separate  the  soul  from  the 
world  is  immoral,  though  it  is  in  accord  with  some 
lofty  principles.  The  soul  outside  of  the  world  is  a 
tramp  who  shirks  work.  To  remain  in  the  world,  to 
do,  to  work,  to  wage  war  against  weakness,  to  live 
strongly  and  have  no  fear — that  is  the  soul  doing 
its  duty,  and  sowing  happiness  for  all. 
"And  speaking  of  happiness  for  others,  in  the  first 
place,  it  is  not  right  to  force  it  upon  others  against 
their  consent,  and  in  the  second  place,  it  is  wrong 
to  do  it  at  the  expense  of  your  own  welfare.  Do  all 
that  you  can  for  yourself  first,  or  you  are  not  justi 
fied  in  trying  to  manage  other  lives  on  a  better 

152 


The  Immorality  of  Principles 

basis.  I  believe  in  perfection,  but  I  believe  that  as 
much  of  it  as  is  possible  should  begin  with  the  per- 
fedtionists.  I  believe  that  nothing  is  worth  doing, 
unless  there  is  a  sound  reason  for  it.  I  believe  in 
egoism.  Altruism  may  have  done  much  good,  but 
I  pity  the  Altruists,  who  have  enervated,  weakened 
and  impoverished  themselves  by  their  mostly  futile 
attempts  to  help  others. 

"  Largely,  altruism  is  an  attempt  to  do  for  others 
what  you  cannot  do  for  yourself. 
"There  are  principles  which  have  led  people  to  lose 
all  that  was  good  in  them.  The  roads  to  unattain 
able  ideals  and  impossible  perfections  are  strewn 
with  countless  corpses  of  lost  victims.  People  lose 
their  health,  peace,  welfare  and  all,  trying  to  do  for 
others  what,  in  so  many  cases,  cannot  be  done  at 
all.  All  this  is  wrong.  It  is  wrong  to  add  to  the  store 
of  the  world's  misery,  though  you  are  attempting 
to  alleviate  it.  No,  no  one  should  work  for  philan 
thropy  unless  he  gets  a  good  salary  for  it.  As  to 
asceticism,  it  has  never  been  a  profitable  business. 
Contrary  to  other  religions,  Judaism  rather  stood 
for  the  joy  of  life  than  the  arrest  of  it. 
"I  have  seen  much  of  the  problem  of  immoral  prin 
ciples  among  our  radicals  of  the  Ghetto,  many  of 
whom  have  ruined  and  wrecked  their  lives  because 
of  the  ideas  they  advocated.  If  the  dream  of  social 
justice  would  be  realized  to-morrow,  many  of  them 
would  not  have  the  strength  to  enjoy  it.  Others  are 
so  weak  that  they  would  not  be  able  to  stand  the 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

shock.  There  were  those  who  had  others  dependent 
upon  them,  and  who  neglected  everything  and 
everybody,  particularly  themselves,  for  the  sake  of 
cthe  cause/  and  who  finally  became  utterly  useless. 
They  added  to  the  poverty  of  the  East  Side  in  their 
efforts  to  abolish  it,  while  if  they  had  taken  good 
care  of  themselves  they  would,  in  the  long  run, 
have  done  vastly  more  for  their  ideals.  Among  my 
plots  for  stories  that  I  have  never  written,  is  the 
case  of  a  man  who  became  a  tramp,  because  he  was 
too  anxious  to  abolish  the  system  that  produces 
tramps.  One  of  the  finest  poets  of  the  East  Side  is 
now  a  mental  and  physical  wreck,  because  he  lived 
up  to  his  highest  principles — and  neglected  him 
self. 

"Enthusiasts  very  often  lose  the  sense  of  justice, 
become  oblivious  to  everything — except  the  in 
visible.  I  know  too  well  the  nobility  of  the  motives; 
I  know  that  there  are  more  of  them  on  the  East 
Side  than  any  other  place  in  America ;  I  know,  also, 
that  a  cause  requires  such  sacrifices,  yet,  what  are 
the  results  ?  Very  often,  failure.  It  has  been  observed 
that  a  man,  who  in  the  midst  of  a  savage  or  barba 
rous  community,  in  defiance  of  current  social  or  re 
ligious  customs,  should  attempt  to  live  the  ideal  life 
of  a  perfect  civilization,  would  doubtless  be  quickly 
eliminated  from  such  a  society  by  violent  and  tragi 
cal  means,  and  thus  effectively  be  stopped  from  in 
fluencing  those  around  him  to  better  ways  of  living. 
A  great  deal  of  our  enforced  civilization  of  savage 


The  Immorality  of  Principles 

races  has  been  fatal  in  its  effects  upon  the  health 
and  happiness  of  the  vast  majority,  while  it  has 
failed  to  elevate  the  average  morals  of  the  survi 
vors.  Authorities  say  that  this  is  likely  to  be  the 
result,  whenever  conventional  education  is  forced 
upon  a  people  in  advance  of  their  functional  de 
velopment. The  Hawaiian  Islanders  are  pointed  out 
as  an  impressive  example,  and  the  missionaries,  as 
well  as  the  radicals  of  the  Ghetto,  trying  to  convert 
their  orthodox  brethren,  ought  to  remember  these 
things. 

"The  way  out  of  it?  Some  one  says:  'That  course 
of  conduct  must  be  adopted  which  will  promote  the 
greatest  possible  development  of  life-giving  ener 
gies,  both  in  the  individuals  immediately  affected, 
and  in  society  at  large,  including  the  life  of  poster 
ity/  That's  science,  if  I  have  the  quotation  right. 
Principles  should  be  founded  on  fact,  and  be  con 
ducive  to  the  largest  happiness,  including  even  the 
happiness  of  the  one  who  holds  the  principles.  In 
size,  they  should  be  more  than  8  by  12  inches.  They 
should  be  a  yard  wide — wide  enough  and  true 
enough  for  all.  Yet  they  should  be  such  principles 
as  to  allow  others  to  hold  other  principles.The  right 
principles,  in  accord  with  the  best  laws  of  life,  and 
not  theology,  will  come  up  to  all  requirements,  and 
they  will  be  moral. 

"Yes,  individualism  by  all  means,"  he  added;  "be 
yourself,  but  don't  be  a  savage." 


XVII 

*The  Exile  of  the  Earnest 

I  MET  Keidansky  at  the  performance  of  a  Yid 
dish  play,  and  our  talk  turned  to  matters  dra 
matic. 

"I  notice  by  the  papers,"  I  remarked,  "that  Sarah 
Bernhardt  has  just  produced  a  play  written  for  her 
by  F.  Marion  Crawford,  the  American  novelist.  So 
we  are  going  to  supply  the  theatres  of  other  coun 
tries  with  plays.  Are  you  interested?" 
<c  Very  much,"  said  Keidansky ; "  this  is  not  the  only 
case  of  an  American  writing  for  the  foreign  stage, 
and  it  suggests  to  me  a  fine  possibility.  About  Craw 
ford  I  know  but  little;  but  he  is  one  of  our  popular 
men.  He  has,  according  to  his  own  confession,  writ 
ten  to  please;  he  has  never  offended  any  living 
beings  by  putting  them  into  his  works ;  he  has  never 
attempted  to  picture  life,  uninteresting  as  it  is,  and 
he  is,  on  the  whole,  not  one  of  those  that  we  should 
want  to  send  away  to  write  plays  for  the  people  of 
other  lands.  And  I  am  rather  glad  his  c  Francesca  da 
Rimini'  has  failed  in  London. 
{C  But  if  there  are  any  among  us  who  are  terribly  in 
earnest,  with  tremendous  intentions  to  elevate  the 
stage,  to  write  plays  that  will  instruct,  stimulate,  up 
lift,  to  take  all  the  struggles  of  humanity  and  put 
them  into  dramas — why  let  them  learn  some  one  of 
the  foreign  languages  and  go  abroad  and  write  plays 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

for  the  serious  people  of  Europe.  Yes,  if  they  persist 
in  these  things,  and  want  to  make  us  think,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  which  is  short  of  pleasure,  if  they 
cannot  amuse  us  with  something  funny  or  entertain 
us  with  something  nice  and  romantic,  why  let  them 
go  abroad.  It's  the  only  way  we  can  get  rid  of  them, 
and  we  shall  not  mourn  the  loss  of  those  who  would 
have  us  do  nothing  else  but  mourn. 
"We  Americans  do  not  want  any  plays  that  require 
intellect,  for  we  need  all  that  we  have  in  our  business 
enterprises ;  we  do  not  want  to  think  in  the  theatre, 
because  it  takes  all  our  thoughts  to  advertise  and  sell 
our  goods,  nor  do  we  want  our  emotions  stirred,  for 
that  is  a  nervous  strain,  clouds  the  mind,  and  makes 
people  unfit  for  speculation,  scheming  or  anything 
on  the  next  day.  Then,  these  plays  that  arrest  the 
brain  and  touch  our  very  soul,  they  make  us  senti 
mental,  soft-hearted,  kind-natured,  and  draw  us  out 
on  long  conversations  with  our  wives,  children  and 
friends.  Meanwhile  the  wheels  of  trade  are  turning, 
and  in  the  race  for  success  we  are  left  behind. 
"We  are  a  healthy  people,  and  we  don't  want  any 
morbid,  lurid,  ghastly  productions  over  here,  and  in 
a  large  sense  all  very  serious  works  are  morbid,  lu 
gubrious  and  gloomy.  At  bottom  of  them  there  is 
always  a  problem,  an  evil,  a  crying  wrong,  a  morbid 
state  of  something.  A  happy  home  is  not  dramatic; 
people  at  peace  with  themselves  and  the  world  are 
not  good  subjects  for  tragedy.  According  to  the 
conception  of  these  earnest  writers  there  is  no  plot 


The  Exile  of  the  Earnest 

for  a  play  without  a  peck  of  trouble.  We  don't  want 
any  such  dramatic  dishes  served.  We  don't  want 
people  to  play  upon  our  feelings,  and  yet  pay  them 
for  it.  Occasionally,  we  are  willing  to  have  something 
a  little  bit  sad,  but  we  want  it  to  end  happily.  But 
the  earnest  ones  tell  us  that  in  real  life  few  sad  stories 
end  happily,  that  their  pictures  are  true  to  life.  Hang 
it,  we  ourselves  know  they  are  true  to  life.  There  's 
plenty  of  trouble  at  home,  —  that 's  why  we  go  to  the 
theatre — to  forget  it.  Gorky  pictures  a  man  —  fat 
and  forty,  successful  and  comfortable  as  a  govern 
ment  official — a  man,  who  after  reading c  a  book  of 
one  of  these  modern  much-praised  writers/  comes 
to  the  conclusion  that  he  is  can  insignificant  nonen 
tity,  a  superfluous  being,  of  no  use  to  any  one.' 
"  This  is  just  what  one  of  the  modern  plays  does  for 
you.  See,  it  seems  to  say,  see,  you  crown  of  creation, 
what  a  crawling  creature  you  are.  Your  past  is  what 
it  ought  not  to  have  been.  Your  present  is  what  it 
ought  not  to  be. c  The  future  is  but  the  past  again, 
entered  through  another  gate/  Yesterday  you  were 
a  fool — to-morrow  you  will  be  a  still  greater  one. 
Your  best  resolutions  shall  become  bitter  regrets. 
You  are  weak,  and  you  make  laws  and  build  gov 
ernments  and  create  creeds,  and  they  make  you 
weaker  yet.  All  the  adornments  of  your  civilization 
are  relics  of  barbarism.  Evolution  is  too  slow  for 
anything,  and  you  cannot  get  ahead  of  yourself.  You 
have  talked  all  your  life  and  not  uttered  an  original 
thought.  There  have  been  a  few  original  beings,  but 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

most  of  you  are  poor  imitations  —  you  must  follow 
others.  You  must  have  a  master,  either  in  heaven,  or 
on  earth ;  you  are  a  slave  of  society.  You  strike  for 
freedom  and  anti-conventionality  only  when  it  be 
comes  a  fad.  You  don't  understand.  Your  children 
cannot  teach  you  any  thing.  You  are  too  old  to  learn. 
When  you  were  young  you  had  only  your  parents 
to  instruct  you.  Your  home  rests  upon  false  assump 
tions.  It  is  a  field  of  battle — or  there  are  no  strong 
individuals  in  it  and  all  is  peace.  The  theory  of  he 
redity  is  not  true — your  children  are  stupid;  your 
wife  is  a  doll,  which  you  have  chosen  for  her  pretty 
cheeks,  and,  though  she  is  fading,  claims  the  rights 
of  a  free-born  human  being,  and  does  not  under 
stand —  but  what's  the  use?  Of  what  earthly  good 
can  such  plays  be?  Why  should  we  in  this  free,  in 
dependent  and  prosperous  country  listen  to  such 
things  ?  Besides,  family  quarrels,  filial  relations,  dis 
agreements  between  relatives  are  not  fit  materials 
for  the  dramatist.  It  is  none  of  his  business  to  med 
dle  in  such  private  matters.  If  there  is  trouble  in  the 
home,  if  a  man  and  a  woman  find  that  one  and  one  is 
two,  if  the  interests  of  certain  persons,  or  classes,  are 
against  those  of  others,  if  people  find  their  religion 
too  small  for  them  and  their  laws  not  big  enough, 
why  there  are  courts  that  they  can  go  to,  and  legis 
latures  and  clergymen  and  lawyers  and  Christian 
Scientists  and  so  many  other  sources  of  help  and 
salvation.  For  a  writer  it  is  extremely  bad  taste  to 
deal  with  such  matters.  His  mission  is  to  amuse  us, 

1 60 


The  Exile  of  the  Earnest 

and  he  has  no  right  to  abdicate  the  sovereignty  of 
his  exalted  office. 

"At  least  that  is  what  we  Americans — the  majority 
of  our  people — think,  andif  there  are  writers  among 
us  so  abnormally  serious  as  to  see  things  otherwise, 
there  is  but  one  thing  to  do  with  them — we  should 
send  them  away  to  other  countries  where  people 
like  that  kind  of  dreary  drama. 
"  Let  them,  like  Marion  Crawford,  write  for  the 
French  stage.  The  French  are  not  even  shocked 
when  they  see  a  real  resemblance  between  life  and 
the  drama.  In  fact  they  put  everything  into  their 
plays,  all  their  faults,  and  I  wonder  how  they  can 
look  at  these  plays.  So  many  things  happen  in 
France,  and  it  is  all  in  their  books  and  plays,  besides 
a  lot  of  things  that  never  happen.  You  cannot  in 
their  country  escape  life  and  all  its  troubles  by  going 
to  the  theatre  or  reading  one  of  their  novels.  All 
life's  tribulations,  turmoil  and  travail  are  in  them. 
Not  that  the  people  are  over-earnest,  but  that  they 
like  something  strong,  love  to  be  stirred  and  moved, 
and  are  recklessly  unafraid  of  the  vertigoes  of 
thought.  They  have  great  artists  and  wonderfully 
fine  writers,  but  their  dramatic  works  are  terribly 
upsetting.  A  good  performance  of  cCamille '  breaks 
a  person  up  for  several  days.  They  are  a  dangerous 
lot,  all  the  French  writers. 

"  No,  we  over  here  do  not  want  such  productions. 
There  are  plenty  of  pretty  incidents  and  fables  out 
of  our  romantic  history  that  we  can  use  on  our  stage. 

161 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

Every  veteran  of  our  wars  tells  enough  of  his  own 
heroic  deeds  to  make  a  dozen  of  plays.  Then  there 
are  so  many  historical  novels,  guaranteed  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  life,  that  have  not  as  yet  been 
dramatized.  Such  plays  would  help  us  to  understand 
our  grand  history. 

"  But  there  is  lots  of  room  in  Europe  for  our  would- 
be  realists,  and  our  government  would  do  well  by 
making  an  appropriation  for  their  instruction  in 
foreign  languages  and  their  deportation  to  the  lands 
of  burdensome  intentions,  revolutionary  move 
ments  and  problem  plays.  This  would  mean  peace 
in  our  own  country. 

"There  are  the  Germans,  who  love  Schopenhauer 
and  beer  and  usually  drink  the  two  together.  They 
feel  intensely,  revel  in  realism  and  have  the  keenest 
enjoyment  of  tragedy.  Nothing  is  too  sad,  sombre, 
or  too  stirring  for  their  stage.  All  the  unanswered 
questions  that  have  vainly  troubled  the  ages  are 
raised  in  their  dramatic  and  literary  works.  What  an 
uncomfortable  prospect  that  is !  They  always  have 
men  who  writes  plays  that  will  never  die.  They  have 
no  shame,  these  Germans.  They  feel  strongly  and 
openly  show  it.  Altogether  they  have  a  passion  for 
the  thoughtful,  and  give  the  modern  playwright 
with  tendencies  a  splendid  opportunity.  But  what  is 
to  be  said  of  a  country  that  can  produce  such  play 
as  Hauptmann's  ( Die  Weber* — a  country  that  can 
send  fifty  Socialist  members  to  the  Reichstag?  Yes, 
we  can  safely  send  them  to  Germany,  or  else  to 

162 


The  Exile  of  the  Earnest 

Russia.  It  would  be  hard  for  an  American  to  learn 
that  language,  but  Russia  is  the  land  where  they  say 
the  most  daring,  the  boldest  things  in  the  most  can 
did  manner,  or  without  any  manner  at  all.  I  don't 
know  why  it  is  unless  it  is  because  free  speech  is  for 
bidden  in  that  country.  There  the  play,  or  the  novel, 
palpitates  with  life  and  vibrates  with  heart-throbs. 
All  the  evil  and  oppression  and  ruin  of  the  country 
cries  out  through  its  literature  and  drama,  and  the 
people  worship  such  art.  Life  itself  is  seen  on  the 
Russian  stage.  This  is  where  we  should  send  our 
earnest  writers.  True,  there  is  a  censorship  in  Russia, 
but  the  radical  utterances  of  an  American  authorwill 
easily  pass  the  Russian  censor. 
"  There  is  Norway,  where  a  man  like  Ibsen,  who 
has  made  that  country  the  scene  of  action  of  all  the 
tragedies  of  the  world,  is  allowed  at  large  after  an 
exile  of  many  years.  Ibsen  has  held  up  the  Land  of 
the  Midnight  Sun  as  a  dominion  of  darkness,  yet 
they  like  him  and  are  also  proud  of  him  in  his  coun 
try.  Belgium  is  another  good  market  for  the  serious 
and  revolutionary  drama.  In  Spain,  Echegarayis  do 
ing  nearly  what  Ibsen  is  doing  in  Norway,  and  he 
has  a  number  of  literary  companions  with  similar 
sombre  intentions.  Even  in  England  they  are  be 
ginning  to  write  such  plays,  and  an  American  can 
easily  learn  the  English  language.  It  's  a  good 
thing  that  Henry  James  prefers  to  live  in  England, 
only  we  ought  to  put  a  tariff  on  his  psychological 
stories.  We  need  not  fear.  Any  and  all  these  coun- 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

tries  will  serve  us  as  places  of  exile  for  our  earnest 
authors. 

"  But  hold  on,  I  Ve  nearly  forgotten.  Perhaps  the 
expenses  of  sending  these  people  to  Europe  can  be 
saved.  Let  them  learn  to  write  in  Yiddish,  for  in  the 
Jewish  theatres  of  the  New  York  Ghetto  all  sorts 
of  serious,  sombre,  life-like,  problematic  and  power 
ful  plays  are  produced." 


164 


XVIII 

Why  Social  Reformers  Should  Be  Abolished 


I 


T'S  quite  a  problem/'  said  Keidansky,  sudden 
ly,  after  a  pensive  pause,  as  he  watched  the 
glimmering  lights  of  the  Cambridge  bridge 


across  the  gloomy  Charles. 
"What is?"  I  asked. 


"How  to  abolish  the  social  reformers,"  he  answered 
in  a  tone  of  determination. 

It  was  nearly  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  when  we  left 
the  little  cafe  where  we  spent  part  of  the  evening,  and 
he  said  it  was  too  early  to  go  home,  which  in  any  case 
was  the  last  resort.  1 1  was  so  roasting  hot  up  in  his  at 
tic,  that  no  matter  what  time  he  climbed  up  there,  he 
would  be  "well  done"  by  the  time  he  rose  in  the 
morning.  But  the  place  he  told  me  of  had  this  advan 
tage :  it  was  delightfully  cool  in  the  winter.  Keidansky 
was  physically  exhausted  and  mentally  lazy,  and 
would  say  but  little  at  first.  He  had  spent  the  day  in 
preparing  an  article  for  one  of  the  Jewish  papers,  and 
during  the  evening  gave  two  lessons  in  English,  visit 
ing  his  pupils  at  their  homes ;  for  it  was  thus,  he  once 
informed  me,  that  he  learned  what  English  he  knew 
— by  teaching  it  to  others.  Incidentally  these  lessons 
he  gave  and  his  journalistic  efforts  helped  to  pay  for 
the  necessities  of  life,  such  as  rent,  laundry,  lunches, 
symphony  concerts  ("on  the  rush"),  admissions  to 
picture  exhibitions,  books,  gallery  tickets  to  the  best 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

plays  that  came  to  town,  etc.  He  had  worked  very 
hard  that  day,  he  said,  which  was  a  direct  violation 
of  his  principle.  He  did  what  he  could  to  keep  his 
ideas  out  of  his  article,  and  he  hoped  it  would  be  pub 
lished.  He  felt  tired,  did  not  want  to  go  home,  and 
proposed  that  we  walk  over  to  the  Charlesbank  Park 
where,  on  a  night  like  this,  we  could  at  least  in  im 
agination  conjure  up  a  breeze. 
"Your  whim  is  law,"  I  said,  and  we  set  off  for  the 
park.  I  had  been  speaking  of  a  Yiddish  melodrama 
which  had  been  produced  in  Boston  a  few  days  be 
fore.  Keidansky  had  not  seen  the  play,  but  he  intend 
ed  to  write  a  review  of  it  for  one  of  the  New  York 
papers.  He  knew  all  about  it  and  the  species  to  which 
it  belonged.  When  capital  punishment  was  abol 
ished,  sitting  through  one  of  these  plays  would  bean 
all-sufficient  penalty  for  murder,  he  said.  Then  this 
subject  gave  out  and  there  was  a  pause,  after  which 
Keidansky  made  the  startling  remark  concerning 
social  reformers. 

"Abolish  them?  Do  you  really  mean  it?"  I  asked. 
"Yes,  though  I  do  say  it,"  he  replied. 
"  What  for  ?"  I,  being  puzzled,  queried  again,  and  he 
answered : 

"  For  the  welfare  of  society,  and  perhaps  also  the  sure 
approach  of  the  millennium."  He  continued :  "The 
social  reformers,  as  a  rule,  are  a  most  unsocial  job  lot 
of  people.  As  I  have  known  them,  their  business  has 
been  to  frighten,  to  scowl,  to  scare,  and  to  make  a 
mountain  of  evil  out  of  a  mole-hill  that  did  not  exist. 

166 


Social  Reformers  Should  be  Abolished 

They  are  often  the  most  blinded  zealots,  the  nar 
rowest-minded,  one-sided  partisans,  with  tremen 
dous,  almost  Dante-like  propensities  to  conjure  up 
hair-raising  horribles,  but  with  the  genius  and  the 
poetry  of  a  Dante  left  out.  Their  method  is  to  cut 
life  up  piecemeal,  pepper  itgood  and  heavy,  and  send 
you  to  bed  with  a  few  bitter  morsels.  After  a  night  of 
the  most  excruciating  nightmares,  you  wake  up  with 
a  nauseous  taste  in  your  mouth,  and  a  pronounced 
case  of  reformania.  It  is  not  so  much  what  they  say, 
as  howthey  emphasize  it;thevery  dictionary  groans 
beneath  the  weight  of  their  abuse  of  adjectives,  and 
after  a  time  they  convince  you  that  you  don't  know 
your  own  address,  that  you  have  not,  as  you  imag 
ined,  been  living  on  the  planet  earth,  but  in  the  most 
devilish,  hellish  purgatory. 

"In  order  to  convert  this  earth  into  a  heaven,  they 
must  needs  make  it  appear  to  be  the  blackest  hell.  In 
order  to  abolish  evil,  they  must  prove  that  nothing 
else  exists.  To  convince  you  of  the  infinite  possibili 
ties  in  the  development  of  men,  they  must  prove  to 
you  that  they  have  ever  been  divided  between  par 
asitic  capitalists  and  starving  slaves.  Evolution,  as 
they  concoct  it  for  you,  has  been  a  process  of  going 
from  bad  to  worse,  from  a  mild  form  of  slavery  to  a 
more  abject  one. 

"You  see,  they  are  in  for  effect,  and  with  the  aid  of 
the  most  bombastic  language  and  turgid  phraseol 
ogy  they  are  bound  to  make  it,  no  matter  how  many 
people  they  dishearten,  discourage  and  dismay.  To 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

damn  humanity,  they  think,  is  but  a  trifle  when  their 
supreme  end  is  to  save  the  world.  Hope  is  not  in 
heaven,  earth  sees  no  gentler  star;  earth  is  hell  and 
hell  bows  down  before  the  social  reformer.  The  re 
former  that  I  mean  is  a  man  ever  wandering  about 
with  a  pail  of  black  paint  in  one  hand,  a  brush  in  the 
other,  and  with  an  expression  of  heartrending  sorrow 
in  his  face  because  he  cannot  find  a  ladder  high 
enough  to  enable  him  to  put  a  few  coats  of  his  paint 
on  the  skies.  The  world  must  be  saved  at  any  cost, 
say  these  reformers,  and  if  the  world  is  the  cost,  why  it 
is  dead  cheap  at  that,  when  they  can  become  saviors 
of  society  and  possibly  sainted  martyrs.  And  so  they 
proceed  to  exaggerate  the  evils  that  exist  in  the  most 
brazen-faced  manner  and  to  magnify  the  evils  they 
imagine  to  the  utmost  extent.  They  generously  en 
large  every  iniquity  that  is  and  fully  describe  those 
that  have  never  been;  they  complicate  every  simple 
problem  in  order  to  puzzle  mankind  and  to  be  mis 
understood  and  to  appear  great.  The  world  has  be 
come  so  civilized,  the  reformers  reason,  or  rather 
think,  that  it  is  hard  to  find  its  monstrous  wrongs  and 
social  reform  are  being  forgotten,  and  so  out  with  our 
telescopes,  magnifying  glasses  and  alarm  clocks.  The 
capitalists  must  be  dethroned,  the  down-trodden 
wage-slave  must  be  enthroned,  and  then  our  saviors 
riot  and  revel  in  their  never-ending  disquisitions. 
Yes,  when  there  are  many  reformers  in  the  world, 
the  world  is  in  sore  need  of  reform. 
"  These  people  are  pitifully  short-sighted  and  can 

168 


Social  Reformers  Should  be  Abolished 

barely  see  one  side  of  life  at  a  time;  they  dissect  life 
and  remove  it  from  reality.  Their  solutions  are  so 
fine  that  they  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  real  prob 
lems.  They  detach  humanity  from  the  world.  They 
abolish  the  concrete  (for  convenience)  and  get  lost 
in  their  abstractions  like  the  detective  who  disguised 
himself  so  much  that  he  could  not  discover  his  own 
identity.  They  conceive  more  evil  than  exists  be 
cause  they  rarely  know  the  difference  between  right 
and  wrong.  They  are  visionaries  without  breadth  of 
visions ;  theorists,  not  knowing  the  uselessness  of  all 
theories ;  people  who  would  save  the  world  because 
they  do  not  know  it ;  builders  without  a  foundation ; 
saviors  without  the  saving  graces  of  truth  and  beau 
ty. They  embitter  humanity,  they  darken  the  world, 
painting  it  blacker  than  it  ever  was  in  the  barbaric 
past  and  —  they  make  me  weary,  the  more  so  be 
cause  they  constantly  remind  me  how  foolish  I  once 
was  myself. 

"  I  tell  you,  the  world  is  better  to-day  than  it  ever 
was  before,  and  it  would  become  still  better  if  we 
could  abolish  these  disparaging,  discouraging,  slan 
derous  social  reformers.  The  true  reformers  are  those 
who  make  us  see  how  good  and  great  the  old  world 
is.  As  you  said  the  other  day,  the  greatest  explorers 
were  those  who  discovered  heaven  on  earth.  And 
after  we  have  abolished  the  reformers  we  could  grad 
ually  also  abolish  the  other  evils  which  afflict  our 
civilization  and  mar  existence.  They  would  no  longer 
impede  our  progress  and  we  could  little  by  little 

169 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

wipe  out  the  wrongs  that  oppress  us  and  institute 
more  just  conditions  for  all  members  of  society. 
These  things  could  be  done  gradually,  reasonably, 
with  good  cheer,  and  with  the  best  results.  For  an 
other  trouble  with  the  vaudeville  social  reformers 
that  I  did  not  mention  is  their  overweening,  over 
whelming  conceit,  which  makes  them  so  ludicrously 
unreasonable  and  prevents  them  from  seeing  that 
the  world  is  just  a  trifle  bigger  than  one  of  their 
numbers." 

It  was  nearing  dawn,  and  I  asked  him  how  he  was 
going  to  do  away  with  the  reformers. 
"  Well,  there  's  the  rub,"  he  said.  "  I  do  not  know 
exactly,  but  I  Ve  been  thinking  that  perhaps  the 
only  and  best  way  of  abolishing  the  social  reformers 
would  be  by  finding  the  true  solution  of  the  social 
problem  and  abolishing  all  the  wrongs  and  iniquities 
of  our  civilization.  Let  us  destroy,  annihilate  the 
evils  of  unjust  laws,  governments  and  monopolies, 
and  institute  a  just  system  of  society  and  the  social 
reformers  will  disappear. 

"Let  us  have  a  society  wherein  all  will  share  equally 
in  all  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  life,  wherein  none  shall 
be  starved  and  none  shall  be  pampered  to  death, 
wherein  none  shall  have  too  much  of  the  goods  of 
the  world  and  all  shall  have  enough,  wherein  no 
hungry  babes  will  wallow  in  the  gutters  to  become 
candidates  for  the  prisons  and  insane  asylums,  and 
no  children  shall  be  ruined  by  riches ;  a  world  where 
in  there  will  be  no  temperance  movements  to  drive 

170 


Social  Reformers  Should  be  Abolished 

men  to  drink,  no  trust  to  destroy  men's  souls,  and 
no  churches  to  harbor  infidels;  a  world  without  the 
constant  clouds  of  harrowing,  sad  thoughts,  without 
the  rains  of  tears,  and  with  more  and  more  of  sun 
shine.  Let  us  do  that  and  we  will  abolish  the  obnox 
ious  reformers.  Let  us  abolish  the  monstrous  crime 
of  poverty,  which  has  not  the  shadow  of  a  reason  for 
existence  in  a  world  that  is  overwhelmed  with  wealth, 
and  the  occupation  of  the  reformers  will  be  gone, 
and  they  will  vanish.  Really,  we  ought  to  be  willing 
and  ready  to  do  anything  for  their  abolition." 


171 


XIX 

Buying  a  Book  in  Salem  Street 

T"  AM  going  to  buy  a  book  on  Salem  street," 
I    said  my  friend,  when  we  suddenly  encountered 
JL  on  Tremont  Row.  "  Do  you  wish  to  come 
along?" 

I  was  bent  on  any  adventure,  and  so  we  started  for 
the  quarter,  down  through  Hanover  street.  It  was 
but  a  short  distance,  and  before  we  had  done  much 
chatting  in  the  way  of  exchanging  ideas,  we  were  at 
the  head  of  the  street,  facing  the  pawnshop  of  No. 
I,  with  the  welcome  legend  of"  Money  to  Loan." 
We  passed  safely  the  bedecked  and  bedraggled  sec 
ond-hand  clothing  stores,  though  the  pullers-in  were 
out  in  full  force.  As  my  companion  explained,  it  is 
only  the  seeming  strangers  who  are  approached  and 
asked  to  buy,  or  sell,  but  familiar  figures  and  per 
sons  in  their  company  are  never  molested.  One  of 
these  attendants,  a  dark,  sad-eyed,  kind-faced  young 
man,  was  leaning  against  the  door-post  of  a  store 
and  intently  reading  a  Jewish  magazine.  We  were 
across  the  street  and  we  stopped  to  look.  This  fel 
low,  who  was  engaged  in  the  most  sordid  business, 
was  reading  the  "  Zukunft,"  the  magazine  of  dreams, 
ideals  and  Utopias,  published  by  the  New  York  radi 
cals.  An  elderly,  bearded  and  stout  man  came  down 
the  street.  Without  looking  up  from  his  booklet  the 
youth  mechanically  asked:  "Any  clothing  to-day?" 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

"  No,"  the  man  shouted,  "  no  clothing  to-day,  and 
you  '11  never  sell  anything  if  this  is  the  way  you  '11 
attend  to  your  business/'  It  was  the  proprietor  of 
the  store.  For  a  moment  the  puller-in  seemed  dazed. 
Then  he  shoved  his  "  Zukunft "  into  his  coat  pocket. 
He  began  to  cast  his  eyes  about  for  customers.  He 
looked  a  model  of  sorrow.  I  was  told  that  it  was  his 
idealism,  his  striving  for  the  impossible,  beautiful, 
that  reduced  him  to  the  ugly  position  he  was  in.  We 
moved  on.  There  were  other  men  reading,  if  only  in 
snatches,  but  they  apparently  owned  their  stores  and 
had  their  assistants.  One  of  the  pullers  pointed  out 
to  me  is  one  of  the  most  enthusiastic  Zionists  in  this 
city.  Children  were  playing  on  sidewalks  and  door 
steps,  sedately  but  happily.  A  school-teacher  from 
one  of  the  neighboring  institutions  passed  through 
the  street.  Several  little  girls  recognized  and  flocked 
about  her.  One  took  the  teacher's  umbrella,  the  oth 
er  asked  for  the  privilege  of  carrying  the  young  la 
dy's  Boston  bag.  They  took  hold  of  her  arms  and 
went  along  dancing  and  smiling  as  she  talked  to 
them.  Above  the  rumbling  of  wagons  were  heard 
the  pleasing  notes  of  a  piano  and  the  singing  of  a 
sweet-voiced  daughter  of  the  tenements. 
Farther  up  the  street  was  more  crowded.  It  was 
Thursday  afternoon.  The  stores  were  all  activity  and 
bustle,  and  the  pedlers  with  their  wagons  and  push 
carts  were  crying  their  foods  and  wares  for  "  the 
Holy  Sabbath "  in  quaint  and  singing  Yiddish 
phrases.  I  was  reminded  by  my  friend  that  Abraham 

174 


Buying  a  Book  in  Salem  Street 

Goldfoden,  the  father  of  the  Jewish  stage,  in  one  of 
his  operettas  uses  a  swarming,  eve-of-Sabbath  mar 
ket-scene  like  this  very  effectively,  and  makes  his 
hucksters  sing  beautifully  of  the  things  they  have  to 
sell.  Said  my  guide  :  "  Of  course,  in  the  operetta  of 
'  The  Witch '  the  pedlers  are  not  so  ragged  and  be 
smeared,  and  you  cannot  hear  the  smell  of  the  meat 
and  the  fish,  but  neither  can  you  buy  and  eat  these 
things.  After  all,  if  art  is  beautiful,  real  life  is  quite 
useful. 

"  To  our  people,"  said  Keidansky,  casting  his  eyes 
about, cc  everything  here  is  a  matter  of  course,  and 
there  is  nothing  unusual  about  it  all.  The  strang 
est  things  are  the  strangers,  who  come  to  stare, 
study  and  wonder.  In  facl,  the  self-concentration  of 
the  Jew,  probably  the  secret  of  his  survival,  makes 
this  the  only  place  in  the  world,  the  temporary  Pal 
estine,  the  centre  of  the  universe.  There  are  other 
places  in  this  city,  but  they  are  only  the  outskirts,  the 
suburbs  of  the  Ghetto.  There  are  other  peoples  and 
religions,  but  we  are  the  people  and  ours  is  the  faith. 
The  flattery  that  children  receive  from  their  parents 
afterwards  helps  them  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  bat 
tle.  The  consciousness  of  his  being  chosen  helped 
Israel  to  find  his  way  through  the  dark  labyrinth  of 
the  centuries.  Everything  here  is  as  it  should  be, 
only  a  little  more  on  the  exclusive  and  pious  Euro 
pean  plan.  This  is  more  of  the  old  fashioned  view, 
but  it  is  still  extant,  inasmuch  as  the  Ghetto  remains." 
Now  we  were  near  Bersowsky's  book-store  which 

175 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

was  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  and  we  stopped, 
facing  it.  A  street-organ  was  playing  in  front  of  the 
strange  emporium  and  a  band  of  children  were  danc 
ing  gayly  to  its  music.  We  could  see  the  books  and 
periodicals,  phy  latteries  and  newspapers,  holy  fringe- 
garments  and  sheets  of  Jewish  music  in  the  windows 
from  the  other  side  of  the  street.  And  as  we  came 
nearer  we  could  see  the  very  aged  woman,  bewigged 
and  kerchiefed,  wan,  wrinkled  and  wry  —  the  most 
familiar  figure  in  the  Ghetto — we  could  see  her  sit 
ting  on  her  high  stool,  drinking  a  glass  of  tea  and 
selling  newspapers.  There  were  several  simple  prints 
and  chromos  in  the  window,  reproductions  from  pic 
tures  of  Jewish  life.  Parents  blessing  their  children 
on  the  Day  of  Atonement,  the  Feast  of  Passover, 
high  priests  lighting  the  candles  in  the  temple  — 
these  were  their  subjects.  In  the  windows  were  also 
brass  candlesticks,  such  as  are  being  lighted  and 
blessed  on  the  eve  of  each  Sabbath.  We  stood  outside 
and  mused. 

"This,"  Keidansky  explained,  "is  the  leading  Jew 
ish  book-store  in  Boston,  and  it  is  in  a  sense  also  the 
spiritual  centre  of  this  Ghetto.  If  any  one  were  to  ask 
me  what  is  to-day  the  moral  condition  of  the  Jews, 
their  spiritual  state,  what  are  their  intellectual  status 
and  religious  aspirations,  if  any  one  should  ask  me 
—  I  would  take  them  into  this  store  and  let  them  see 
what  it  contains.  Religion,  history,  literature — it  is 
all  in  here — at  least  in  all  its  physical  manifestations. 
Pentateuchs,  Bibles,  prayer-books,  all  books  of  re- 


Buying  a  Book  in  Salem  Street 

ligious  instruction,  books  of  piety  and  penance,  vol 
umes  of  the  Talmud  and  of  Mishna,  phylacteries 
and  holy  scrolls,  covers  for  the  scrolls  and  curtains 
for  the  Holy  Ark,  ram's  horns  to  sound  on  New 
Year's,  knives  wherewith  to  kill  cattle  according  to  a 
merciful  ritual,  candle-sticks  and  show-threads  which 
the  Jews  were  commanded  to  wear  at  the  bottom  of 
their  garments  (and  some  of  them  now  wear  under 
their  garments)  —  in  a  word,  all  that  stands  to  pre 
serve  the  old  faith  is  here.  All  the  symbolism  of  our 
old  faith  is  here  incarnated.  And  yet  side  by  side  with 
these  are  the  things  which  tend  towards  the  trans 
formation  or  dissolution  of  the  ancient  religion  — 
the  publications  of  the  radicals,  the  destroying  utter 
ances  of  the  revolutionists.  Here  come  the  ortho 
dox  for  prayer-books  and  the  anti-religious  for  free- 
thought  pamphlets.  Here  you  find  the  organs  of  the 
patriots  and  Zionists,  who  wish  to  preserve  and  re 
generate  the  Jewish  people,  and  also  the  organs  of 
the  Socialists  and  Anarchists  who  are  fighting  against 
all  national  ideas  and  for  an  assimilated  humanity. 
Come  in  and  I  '11  show  you.  There  is  the  cZukunft ' 
(Future),  the  best  literary  and  scientific  monthly  we 
ever  had,  which  is  published  by  the  Socialists.  It  was 
formerly  edited  by  Abe  Cahan,  now  Dr.  Caspe  has 
charge  of  it.  And  look  !  c  Die  Freie  Arbeiter  Stim- 
me,'  the  Anarchist  weekly,  ably  edited  by  S.  Yan- 
ofsky,  one  of  the  cleverest  Yiddish  writers. 
"And,"  my  friend  whispered,  "  this  old  lady,  who 
stands  for  all  that  is  pious  and  ancient,  handing 

177 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

out  the  c  Freie  Arbeiter  Stimme'  and  the  Socialist 
'Vorwarts,'  is  to  me  as  strongly  dramatic  and  as 
profoundly  symbolic  a  picture  as  any  thing  in  life  and 
literature.  Mr.  Bersowsky,  who  started  this  store, 
now  sells  books,  it  is  hoped,  in  a  better  world.  Look 
at  this  young  old  woman — his  widow — and  see  if 
hearts  ever  break  around  here.  The  aged  lady  is  his 
mother,  and  she  would  not  be  in  any  other  place  in 
the  world,  except  where  her  husband,  and  afterwards 
her  son  spent  their  last  days.  So  she  stays  here  all 
the  time  the  store  is  open,and  sells  papers  and  books 
in  spite  of  protests. 

"  The  Jew  is  so  practical  that  he  always  looks  ahead ; 
he  is  chronically  optimistic,  and  his  imagination  cre 
ates  everything  that  the  world  denies  him.  Dreamer 
he  has  been  ever  since  the  prophets,  and  even  before 
their  time.  It  must  have  been  superb  idealism  and 
beautiful  faith  which  enabled  him  to  loan  money 
to  his  neighbors  during  the  Middle  Ages.  It  still  re 
quires  fine  imagination  to  do  it  to-day. 
"  Between  the  sordid  and  the  sublime  stands  the 
Jew,  who  is  either  one  or  the  other,  or  both,  as  cir 
cumstances  shape  his  destiny.  You  can  see  this  in 
all  his  literature,  from  the  stories  of  Motke  Chabad 
to  the  plays  of  Jacob  Gordin. 
"Is  it  not  strange  how  quickly  we  adapt  ourselves, 
and  how  soon  we  come  up  to  date  and  ahead  of 
date  ?  But  yesterday  we  had  no  literature  except  our 
religious  guides,  our  only  beacon  lights  in  the  old- 
world  Ghettos ;  and  now  we  have  splendid  modern 


Buying  a  Book  in  Salem  Street 

works,  both  in  Hebrew  and  Yiddish,  all  breathing 
the  modern  spirit.  Many  standard  works  from  all 
European  tongues  have  been  translated  for  us;  but 
we  have  a  number  of  great  masters  of  our  own.  It 
is  such  a  short  time  ago  that  we  had  no  fiction  to 
speak  of  us  (except  the  sermons  of  our  preachers); 
and  now  there  is  Abromowitz  and  Peretz,  Spector 
and  Rubenowitz,  and  so  many  others.  There  is  a 
whole  group  of  modern  poets,  who  have  also  grown 
up  in  no  time.  And  the  struggle  between  the  old 
and  the  new,  which  this  literature  represents,  the 
striving  for  the  modern,  and  the  longing  for  the  an 
cient —  that  is  what  makes  it  so  painful  and  pleasant 
—  so  stirring,  and  therefore  uch  good  art.  All  grades 
of  feeling  and  believing,  thinking  and  non-thinking, 
are  in  the  books  and  periodicals  that  you  find  in 
this  store.  And  the  men  and  women  who  come  here, 
living  in  the  same  Ghetto,  are  often  millions  of 
miles  apart  in  their  ideas." 

My  guide  asked  for  his  book,  a  Hebrew  story,  by 
L.  M.  Lillenblum.  The  elderly  man,  who  is  a  rela 
tive  of  the  family  and  a  partner  in  the  business, 
knew  all  about  it,  found  it  after  a  long  search,  and 
made  my  friend  happy.  The  story,  I  was  told,  was 
written  about  twenty  years  ago  by  a  native  of  Kei- 
dan.  At  that  time  there  was  a  general  literary  awak 
ening,  and  many  talented  men  wrote  profane  and 
useful  books  in  the  holy  language,  and  shocked  the 
orthodox  Jews  of  Russia.  In  Keidan,  they  wanted 
to  excommunicate  the  author  of  "The  Follies  of 

179 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

My  Youth";  but  the  rabbi  of  Kovno  telegraphed, 
saying  that  the  infidel  was  a  great  man,  and  should 
be  left  alone  —  with  his  book.  An  old  man  came  in, 
and  after  much  bargaining,  bought  a  silk  praying- 
shawl.  Several  persons  came  in  for  papers.  A  young 
man  bought  the  "Zukunft"  and  "The  Merchant 
of  Venice"  translated  in  blank  verse,  by  Joseph 
Bovshover. 

He  wore  glasses,  long  hair,  carried  an  umbrella  and 
a  green  bag;  in  fa6t,  one  might  have  met  him  in  a 
vegetarian  restaurant.  He  was  pointed  out  to  me  as 
a  noted  radical,  a  dreamer,  who  writes  for  the  "  Vor- 
warts,"  works  as  a  tailor  in  a  sweat-shop,  and  is  said 
to  be  writing  a  book.  A  comely  young  maiden,  with 
a  madonna-like  face,  came  near  the  store.  She  had  a 
few  may  flowers  in  her  hand — and  gave  them  to  a 
ragged  little  child  standing  there.  She  came  in  and 
bought  a  paper.  She  did  not  read  Yiddish;  but  it 
was  for  her  father.  She  was  a  college  student,  I  was 
told,  of  advanced  ideas,  but  deeply  in  love  with  the 
people  of  the  Ghetto  and  their  beliefs — was  plan 
ning  to  devote  her  life  to  settlements  and  social  re 
form  work  —  one  of  the  many  dreamers  who  came 
into  this  store. 

"  Once,"  said  my  guide,  "  I  told  her  that  I  would 
put  her  into  a  book.  c  Thank  you/  she  answered. 
'  I  don't  want  to  sink  into  oblivion  so  soon/  But 
she  is  an  idyl  of  the  Ghetto  just  the  same.  Look; 
here  are  the  poems  of  David  Edelstaat.  He  sleeps 
now  in  a  lonely  grave  in  the  Jewish  cemetery  at 

1 80 


Buying  a  Book  in  Salem  Street 

Denver,  Colorado,  by  the  side  of  the  fence,  for  he 
was  a  delinquent  in  Israel.  He  went  there  by  way  of 
the  corroding  sweat-shop  and  a  damp  cellar  in  New 
York,  where  he  edited  a  little  communist  weekly. 
Many  of  our  idealists  go  to  Denver  this  way.  It  is 
the  only  time  they  travel  and  take  a  vacation.  The 
hospitals  there  are  crowded.  But  Edelstaat's  poems, 
they  are  a  sacred  treasure  among  the  Jewish  work 
ing  people." 


181 


XX 

The  Purpose  of  Immoral  Plays 

THE  smoke  was  so  thick  and  the  din  so 
heavy,  that  I  did  not  see  him  when  I  came 
in  and  barely  heard  his  shouted  greeting. 
Such  was  the  crowded  condition  of  the  regular  re 
sort  on  Saturday  night;  yet  I  found  Keidansky 
tucked  up  in  a  corner  of  the  cafe,  "oblivious  to  the 
obvious,"  around  him,  with  a  pile  of  newspapers  in 
his  hands.  "  The  group"  had  not  as  yet  assembled, 
so  my  friend  was  reading. 

"This  has  been  a  great  week,"  he  said  with  glad 
some  emphasis,  after  we  had  exchanged  courtesies. 
I  at  once  suspecled  what  he  meant. 
"A  great  week,"  I  said,  "because  you  have  been 
able  to  see  humanity  piteously  dissected,  human  be 
ings  mercilessly  analyzed,  souls  stript  of  their  rai 
ment,  wounded  and  bleeding,  our  fellow-men  on 
exhibition,  crippled  by  custom  and  walking  on 
the  crutches  of  convention,  our  best  arrangements 
of  life  held  up  to  ridicule  and  scorn.  A  great  week," 
I  said,  "  because  you  have  fed  on  tragedy  like  a 
fiend?" 

"Yes,  there  is  something  sad  about  tragedy,"  an 
swered  Keidansky, ignoring  my  bitterness,  "but  the 
man  who  sees  things  clearly,  who  looks  a  long  dis 
tance  behind  the  scenes,  the  man  who  sees  the  worst 
and  does  not  die,  but  lives  to  cast  his  observations 

183 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

into  a  perfect  work,  and  to  lift  you  up  to  the  moun 
tain-top  with  him,  is  not  this  man  great  and  glad 
dening?  Is  there  not  cause  for  exultation  in  a  really 
big  tragedy  ?  And  this  is  saying  but  little  about  the 
aesthetic  pleasure  of  a  story  told  in  heart-breaking 
and  soul-stirring  manner,"  he  added.  "Some  one 
must  do  this  work,  and  it  makes  one  feel  real  good 
when  the  right  man  comes  along. 
"  The  saddest  stories  are  yet  to  be  told,  before  there 
can  be  much  more  happiness  in  the  world.  We  can 
never  reach  the  heights  until  we  realize  the  depths. 
As  for  myself,  I  give  all  the  world  to  the  man  who 
can  make  it  better  than  it  is.  And  such  works  are 
making  the  longed-for  improvement,  by  perform 
ing  the  miracle  of  making  men  and  women  think, 
doing  this,  not  by  any  pedantic  preachments,  but 
by  the  power  of  suggestiveness  and  the  large  vision 
of  the  newer  and  truer  art.  Art  with  a  purpose?  But 
all  art  has  this  purpose.  And  the  less  the  purpose 
is  consciously  inculcated  into  art,  the  better  is  that 
purpose  carried  out.  They  call  them  problem  plays, 
but  was  there  ever  a  great  play  without  some  sort 
of  problem  in  it?  Without  some  burning  question 
of  life,  and  love,  and  death?  What's  that?  Immoral? 
Was  there  ever  a  masterly  and  mastering  work  that 
was  not  immoral,  according  to  the  popular  judg 
ments  ?  Was  there  ever  a  work  with  a  big  purpose 
that  conformed  to  the  critics  and  to  current  lack  of 
opinions?  Could  there  be  much  of  a  purpose  to  any 
thing  that  did  not  shock  the  world's  conspiracy  of 

184 


The  Purpose  of  Immoral  Plays 

cowardice  they  call  morality?  Gott  is  mit  dirl  You 
must  go  abroad  and  take  some  cure.  You  have  been 
reading  the  American  dramatic  critics.  It  was  a  great 
week,  I  say,  with  Ibsen  and  Bjornson,  Sudermann 
and  Pinero,  and  two  wonderful  artists  to  interpret 
them,  but  the  pleasure  was  very  much  spoiled  for 
me  by  some  of  these  critics.  Ah,  these  poor  critics. 
Here  are  the  papers,  and  I  can  still  hear  them  chok 
ing  and  croaking  and  cackling,  and  my  heart  goes  out 
to  them  and  turns  sick.  What  a  wonderful  lot  of  fel 
lows  they  are.  What  endless  platitudes  and  empty 
phrases  —  full  of  nonsense  —  they  have  delivered 
themselves  of  this  week,  yet  I  don't  think  they  are 
any  the  wiser  for  it.  I  know  one  of  the  fraternity 
(there  is  sufficient  disagreement  between  themselves 
to  be  called  a  fraternity)  who  is  a  perfect  genius. 
With  one  stroke  of  his  mighty  pen  he  once  anni 
hilated  Ibsen,  Echegaray,  Astrowsky,  Paul  Her- 
vieueand  Edward  Martyn.  It  was  all c  morbid  trash,' 
he  said  of  a  series  of  their  plays,  and  it  is  strange 
that  these  men  are  still  heard  of  occasionally.  That 
was  after  the  John  Blair  experiment,  and  I  walked 
into  this  critic's  office  and  made  a  few  extempora 
neous  remarks.  He  said  I  ought  to  have  more  re 
spect  for  a  man  who  can  get  as  much  advertising 
for  his  paper  as  he  can.  Of  course,  this  was  indis 
putable.  It  would  take  so  little  courage  to  do  it, 
yet  they  dare  not  think  their  own  thoughts,  the  dear, 
dear  critics.  No,  there  is  not  any  use  in  trying  to 
reason  with  them,  but  I  sometimes  would  like  to  get 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

them  all  together  in  one  room  and  give  them  all  a 
sound  horsewhipping. 

"One  of  the  critics,  who  writes  in  silk  gloves, 
swears  in  the  most  perfect,  correct  English,  and 
compares  every  play  he  sees  to  something  of  Shake 
speare,  objects  to  cThe  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray' 
as  an  immoral  play.  The  dissection  of  this  woman's 
heart  and  mind,  he  protests,  is  not  the  proper  busi 
ness  of  the  dramatist,  nor  is  the  inspection  of  his 
dissecting  table  after  the  job  has  been  done  a  proper 
amusement  for  theatrical  spectators.  CA  process  of 
repentance  and  purification'  and  that  sort  of  thing, 
on  the  part  of  this  unfortunate,  must  be  indicated, 
if  art  is  to  approach  this  kind  of  life.  The  entire 
scheme  of  ethics  is  bad.  Yet  the  critic  admits  that 
the  performance  was  terrible  and  touching,  and  that 
Mrs.  Campbell  —  Heaven  bless  her  for  coming  to 
see  us — won  a  remarkable  and  complete  victory  in 
the  part;  altogether  he  praises  her  very  generously. 
"Now,  what  I  say  is  this.  If  we  can  be  moved  and 
stirred  by  an  immoral  play,  there  is  either  something 
the  matter  with  our  morality,  or  there  is  some 
thing  radically  wrong  with  our  hearts.  I  must  re 
call  to  you  the  lines  of  Stephen  Crane.  'Behold  the 
grave  of  a  wicked  man,  and  near  is  a  stern  spirit. 
There  came  a  drooping  maid  with  violets,  but  the 
spirit  grasped  her  arm.  "No  flowers  for  him,"  he 
said.  The  maid  wept:  "Oh,  I  loved  him."  But  the 
spirit  grim  and  frowning:  "No  flowers  for  him." 
Now,  this  is  it.  If  the  spirit  was  just,  why  did  the 

186 


The  Purpose  of  Immoral  Plays 

maid  weep?'  If  our  standard  of  morality  is  right, 
why  do  our  hearts  go  out  for  Paula  Tanqueray,  for 
Nora  Helmer,  for  Mad  Agnes?  Is  it  because  we 
have  become  so  humane  as  to  be  far  ahead  of  our 
morality?  What  does  it  mean,  anyway?  We  are  told 
that  the  contents  of  the  plays  seen  here  last  week, 
are  not  fit  subjects  for  the  drama.  Well,  art  might 
as  well  go  out  of  business,  if  it  is  not  going  to  look 
life  squarely  in  the  face,  if  it  is  not  going  to  sound 
the  very  depths  of  things,  and  mirror  conditions  as 
they  are  to-day,  for  modern  humanity.  The  play  in 
particular,  it  is  clear,  must  deal  with  the  intense  ef 
forts,  the  dramatic  essences  of  life ;  the  play  in  par 
ticular  will  have  nothing  to  do  unless  it  takes  up 
the  crucial  conditions,  the  large  realities,  the  stir 
ring  struggles,  the  sterling  aspirations  of  the  clashing 
life  of  to-day  under  the  new  and  as  yet  unadjusted 
surroundings.  The  drama  must  take  up  shame  and 
crime,  error  and  suffering,  or  there  is  no  plot  for  a 
great  play  anywhere.  The  few  pretty,  romantic,  silly 
stories  have  been  told  over  and  over  again.  Now  we 
have  grown.  There  is  a  larger  life  before  us,  and  we 
want  something  stronger.  We  must  have  plays  to 
educate  our  critics, — if  that  is  possible. 
" £  He  who  is  without  sin  among  ye,  let  him  cast  the 
first  stone/  If  Christ  had  said  nothing  else,  would 
not  this  have  made  him  a  great  man  ?  Yet  after  eight 
een  hundred  years  it  is  necessary  for  another  Jew, 
a  Portuguese  Jew  named  Pinero,  to  say  the  same 
thing  through  the  medium  of  a  play,  because  the 

187 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

Christians  say  that  Christ's  teachings  are  immoral. 
And  then  the  stones  of  the  critics  are  thrown  at  Pi- 
nero." 

Here  I  said  something  about  the  relation  between 
art  and  morality,  but  Keidansky  protested. 
"  Art  has  nothing  to  do  with  morality/'  he  said, 
"  and  therefore  it  teaches  such  great  moral  lessons. 
It  re-creates  and  reproduces  Nature  and  life  in  forms 
of  beauty  and  power.  And  because  it  approaches  ele 
mentary  conditions  without  bias  and  preconceived 
notions,  and  illumines  its  material  with  the  touch  of 
human  genius,  it  shows  us  life  in  its  largeness,  right 
in  its  relativeness,  and  raises  us  above  our  established 
moralities.  Because  art  is  the  spontaneous  expres 
sion  of  the  humane,  the  true,  the  good  and  the  beau 
tiful  in  our  souls,  it  helps  us  to  see  the  larger  rights, 
the  greater  justice,  and  helps  us  to  make,  change  and 
advance  our  morality.  Art  touches  the  commonplace 
and  makes  it  divine.  It  makes  a  saint  out  of  a  sin 
ner  by  showing  causes,  and  casting  a  kindly  light 
over  human  weakness. 

"In  real  life  'The  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray '  is  a 
shameful  scandal,  to  be  exploited  by  sensational 
newspapers,  and  we  avoid  the  parties  concerned  and 
run  away  from  them ;  but  art  raises  the  story  to  the 
height  of  the  tragic  and  the  epic,  and  we  suffer  and 
grieve  with  Paula,  and  even  the  cold  critic,  who  tries 
so  hard  not  to  be  humane,  is  moved.  In  life  we  are 
even  afraid  to  mention  the  names  of  such  people; 
but  art  makes  us  weep  for  Camille,  sympathize  with 

188 


The  Purpose  of  Immoral  Plays 

Sapho,  be  sad,  or  gay,  with  the  vagabond  Frar^ois 
Villon,  sigh  for  Denise,  grieve  with  Don  Jose,  and 
follow  Manon  Lescaut  through  the  desert  of  North 
America.  Art  helps  us  to  realize  that  there  is  no  sin 
but  error,  no  degradation  but  dulness  of  the  mind, 
no  vice  but  lack  of  vision. 

"  I  don't  want  to  speak  to  you  because  you  did  not 
go  to  see  Bjornson's  s  Beyond  Human  Power  '  and 
Mrs.  Campbell's  acling  in  that  piece.  Yet  since  you 
did  not  go  you  ought  to  be  enlightened.  You  have 
read  the  story?  Did  you  see  how  the  critics  dodged 
the  issues  of  the  play,  beating  about  the  bush  and 
puzzling  each  other  ?  A  case  of  faith  and  reason, 
you  know,  and  you  must  n't  talk  about  these  things. 
A  blind  leader  of  the  blind,  a  man  who  f  lacks  the 
sense  of  reality '  and  sees  only  what  he  wishes  to  see ; 
a  woman  of  intellecl  who  wastes  her  love  on  him  ; 
unbelieving  children  of  a  miracle  worker;  the  clash 
between  the  new  and  the  old;  the  decrepitude  of 
orthodoxy ;  the  contrast  between  the  master  and  his 
disciples  and  who  can  never  realize  the  impossible, 
unnatural  ideals ;  the  faith  that  kills.  The  play  has 
all  the  tragedy  of  a  dying  religion,  and  the  last  a6l  is 
as  powerful  as  anything  I  have  ever  seen  anywhere. 
What  does  it  mean  ?  To  me  it  indicates  the  dying  of 
the  old  Christianity,  and  I  believe  that  Bjornson, 
unlike  Ibsen,  is  a  Christian.  The  quiet,  subdued, 
subtle  work  of  Mrs.  Campbell  was  worthy  of  the 
play. 

"And  there  was  Henrik  Ibsen's  c  A  Doll's  House/ 

189 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

I  shall  never  forget  the  performance  of  it.  What  a 
simple  story,  how  concise  and  terse,  not  a  superflu 
ous  word  in  the  whole  of  it,  yet  how  strong  and  stir 
ring!  It  is  primarily  a  picture,  a  powerful  dramatic 
picture  without  a  shadow  of  preachiness  in  it.  You 
say  there  is  a  problem  in  it?  Yes,  but  it 's  in  the  pic 
ture,  the  picture  is  the  problem.  Here  is  a  perfect 
work  of  a  great  master,  if  there  ever  was  one.  There 
are  whole  cities  made  up  of  such  dolls'  houses,  with 
women  as  playthings,  toys,  means  of  amusement, 
slaves  of  conventionality  and  of  slavish  men,  yet  the 
critics  are  croaking  and  raising  the  cry  of c  immoral 
ity/  Save  on  the  New  York  East  Side  Ghetto,  Ib 
sen  is  comparatively  unknown  in  America,  but  it  is 
not  true  that  the  American  people  are  not  interested 
in  his  plays  whenever  they  are  given  and  that  they 
would  not  go  to  see  them  if  more  of  them  were  per 
formed.  In  saying  so  the  critics  say  what  is  not  true, 
as  was  manifest  from  the  enthusiastic  audiences  at 
the  last  week's  performances.  There  is  a  Yiddish 
translation  of  the  play  by  the  poet  Morris  Winchew- 
sky,  and  it  was  performed  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Jacob 
P.  Adler,  but  I  have  never  seen  it.  Mrs.  Fiske's 
c  Nora '  is  positively  great.  H  er  delicacy,  her  mastery 
of  light  and  shade,  her  manner  of  speech  and  poise, 
and  on  the  whole  her  perfect  conception  of  the  char 
acter  is  a  stroke  of  genius.  Why  did  you  not  see  it  P 
Do  you  want  to  go  ?  You  can  pay  for  my  lunch. 
Ibsen  and  Bjornson  have  impoverished  me  this 
week." 

190 


The  Purpose  of  Immoral  Plays 

"  So  you  don't  think  much  of  the  American  critics  ? " 
I  asked  at  this  point. 

"  On  the  contrary,"  he  said,  "with  the  exception  of 
some,  I  think  they  are  all  good  advertising  agents." 


191 


XXI 
"The  Poet  and  the  Problem 

THIS  time  I  met  Keidansky  in  front  of  the 
Jewish  theatre.  He  had  just  left  the  re 
hearsal  of  a  play  which  he  had  translated 
from  the  German  into  Yiddish.  As  I  approached  he 
pointed  to  a  huge  sign  on  top  of  the  building  across 
the  street  advertising,  in  a  pretty  jingle  of  rhymes,  a 
new  biscuit  of  undreamed  of  deliciousness. 
"  I  have  solved  the  problem,"  he  said  proudly.  This 
was  not  such  a  surprise  to  me.  To  solve  problems 
was  my  friend's  business. 
"What  problem  is  that?"  I  asked. 
"  The  problem  of  the  poet,"  he  answered.  "After  the 
ages  of  oppression,  persecution  and  poverty,  after  the 
exiles,  insults  and  negligence  of  centuries,  the  poet 
will  at  last  come  into  his  own,  into  bread  and  butter 
and  a  respected  position  in  society.  Immunity  from 
starvation,  peace,  prosperity  will  at  last  be  his.  His 
worth  will  be  recognized  and  he  will  be  put  to  work 
and  made  a  useful  member  of  society." 
"What  will  he  do?  "I  asked. 

"He  will  write  the  advertisements  for  manufacturers 
andstorekeepers, "said  Keidansky ;"  he  will  singthe 
song  of  the  products  of  modern  industry,  chant  of  the 
wonderful  performances  of  the  age  and  glorify  the 
fruits  of  our  civilization,  extol  the  things  of  use  and 
of  beauty  that  serve  the  needs  of  to-day's  humanity. 

I93 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

This  will  be  an  ample  theme  for  his  Muse  and  the 
guerdon  of  his  songwill  be  tangible.  His  talents  will 
serve  a  great  practical  need.  He  will  prove  at  last 
that  there  is  some  advantage  in  genius.  The  world, 
the  world  of  reality,  of  fa<fts,  figures  and  statistics 
will  no  longer  ask, 'What's  the  use  of  poetry  ?'  The 
world  will  recognize  its  usefulness,  and  commerce 
and  trade  and  capital  shall  become  its  friends.  In 
graceful  rhymes,  in  silvery  stanzas,  in  beautiful 
verses  will  the  poet  voice  the  marvels  of  all  the  re 
sults  of  the  inventiveness,  ingenuity  and  skill  with 
which  our  era  is  so  richly  blessed.  And  whatever  ar 
ticle  on  the  market  will  be  the  burden  of  his  song, 
it  will  bring  good  prices  and  make  easy  the  life  of  the 
singer.  And  people  will  no  longer  have  to  strain  their 
eyes  to  find  the  poet's  lines  in  an  obscure  corner  of 
a  magazine,  or  in  a  little  volume  of  tiny  type ;  the 
bards  will  no  longer  have  to  depend  upon  such  poor 
methods  of  attracting  attention. 
"In  great,  glaring,  garish  and  golden  letters  their 
poems  will  look  down  upon  people  from  the  roof 
tops,  from  the  high  walls  of  factories  and  barns, 
from  fences  and  huge  signs  by  all  the  roadsides,  rail 
road  sides,  mountain  sides,  seasides,  and  all  sides, 
and  people  will  be  compelled  to  look  up  to  them, 
because  there  will  be  nowhere  else  to  look.  There 
will  be  no  escape.  The  large  letters  painted  in  glow 
ing  colors  and  with  their  artistic  arrangement  will 
arrest  the  attention  of  all.  And  when  a  foreigner  will 
come  here  to  study  this  country  and  write  it  up,  he 

194 


The  Poet  and  the  Problem 

will  not  be  able  to  see  anything  on  account  of  these 
signs  which  will  cover  the  land,  and  after  reading 
the  inscriptions  upon  them,  he  will  go  forth  saying 
that  it  is  the  most  poetic  country  in  the  whole  world. 
So  inspired  will  the  stranger  become  that  he  will  go 
forth  and  tell  the  world  of  the  wonderful  things  we 
make  and  advertise  here.  Thus  poetry,  at  last,  be 
come  useful,  will  help  us  conquer  the  foreign  mar 
ket.  After  all,  the  bards  will  come  down  from  the 
clouds  and  the  garrets  of  starvation,  and  in  their 
song  embrace  the  whole  world;  celebrate  the  things 
concrete,  material  and  real.  Poetry  and  the  world  will 
at  last  become  reconciled;  spirit  and  substance  will 
be  united  to  the  practical  advantage  of  the  spirit. 
"  For  too  long  a  time  has  the  poet  wandered  about 
in  distress,  begging  for  a  pittance,  persecuted  every 
where,  singing  his  song  for  nothing,  with  starvation 
and  inspiration  as  his  only  rewards.  For  too  long  a 
time  has  the  poet,  cthe  unacknowledged  legislator 
of  the  world/  been  subjected  to  all  manner  of  scorn, 
persecution,  calumny,  and  been  compelled  to  seek  in 
vain  some  one  who  will  pay  well  for  a  dedication  of 
his  work.  His  own  lot  was  ever  hard,  and,  besides, 
he  suffered  all  the  sorrows  of  humanity.  He  lived 
with  all  and  grieved  with  all.  He  put  his  life  into  his 
songs,  yet  few  paid  any  heed  to  them.  Poets  have  ever 
been  the  victims  of  the  prosiness  of  things.  The  world 
was  ever  ugly  to  them  because  they  made  it  so  beauti 
ful.  No  matter  how  great  their  immortality,  they 
never  could  pay  their  rent.  CA  genius  is  an  accused 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

man/  said  Victor  Hugo  in  his  book  on  Shakespeare, 
and  then  he  goes  on  to  enumerate  all  the  banish 
ments,  persecutions,  imprisonments  and  outrages 
that  were  heaped  upon  the  poets  of  all  lands  and  all 
ages,  including  Victor  Hugo  himself.  Yes,  a  poet  has 
ever  been  an  accused  man,  and  nearly  every  one  has 
found  him  guilty.  But  as  I  say,  these  cruelties  had  for 
too  long  been  practised  upon  the  singers  and  the  time 
has  come  for  a  change.  With  the  advance  of  civiliza 
tion  he  will  be  given  useful  employment,  a  decent 
wage,  and  thus  enabled  to  make  a  living  without 
working  overtime.  Richard  Le  Gallienne  shall  weep 
no  more  for  a  government  endowment  for  the  poet. 
The  poet  shall  become  self-supporting.  He  will  sing 
of  things  whereof  the  owners  can  afford  to  pay  for 
the  song.  Whether  he  will  create  immortal  works 
or  not  he  will  work,  and  work  is  immortal.  It  will 
continue  unto  the  end  of  time." 
Here  I  wished  to  remonstrate,  but  Keidansky  would 
not  permit  me.  He  continued,  as  we  walked  along 
through  the  Ghetto. 

"The  human  and  other  machines  of  the  age  are 
bringing  such  wonderful  things  into  existence,  and 
the  poet  will  lift  his  voice  in  praise  of  them.  It  real 
ly  takes  the  imagination  of  a  poet  to  piclure  and  glo 
rify  the  countless  commodities  that  are  manufac 
tured  and  put  upon  the  markets  of  our  time.  It  takes  a 
poet  to  point  out  their  usefulness.  What  will  he  not 
sing  of  on  those  huge  street  signs  and  in  the  double- 
page  advertisements  in  the  newspapers  ?  Of  pre-di- 

196 


The  Poet  and  the  Problem 

gested  foods,  of  squeezeless  corsets,  of  baking  pow 
der  that  bakes  the  cakes  without  any  form  of  heat, 
of  ink  that  endows  the  pen  with  brains,  of  cigars 
that  are  conducive  to  health,  of  watches  that  make 
people  up  to  date,  of  a  hair  restorer  that  keeps  the 
hair  you  have,  of  shoes  with  which  you  can  walk  in 
the  air,  of  clothes  that  make  man  and  woman  out  of 
nothing,  pianos  that  make  Paderewskys,  of  bicycles 
and  typewriters,  and  razors  and  house-lots  and  fur 
niture,  and  peerless,  rare,  surpassing,  extraordinary 
everything  mentionable.  What  will  he  not  sing  of? 
These  things  will  be.  God  will  send  us  a  Bobby 
Burns  and  he  will  sing  the  song  of  the  best  steam 
ship  company,  and  he  will  not  only  be  able  to  go  a- 
broad  often,  but  he  may  in  the  course  of  time  even  be 
come  the  general  passenger  agent.  It  takes  a  compe 
tent  fortune  to  escape  the  materialism  of  the  age,  and 
to  acquire  this  the  poet  will  associate  himself  with 
the  material  interests  of  the  time  and  become  as  free 
as  a  bird  in  the  woods. 

"  The  process  has  begun,  and  already  one  finds  pret 
ty  little  poems  and  fine  sentiments  in  all  advertise 
ments,  particularly  those  that  meet  one's  eyes  in  the 
street  cars.  I  usually  have  a  book  with  me  on  the  cars, 
but  of  late  I  find  the  advertisements  more  amus 
ing.  Pretty  soon  the  best  literature  will  appear  in 
the  advertisements  of  all  publications.  One  firm 
advertises  in  choice  epigrams,  which  show  the  possi 
bilities  for  some  future  wits.  I  do  not  know  whether 
they  are  written  by  Elbert  Hubbard  or  not,  but 

197 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

they  sound  like  it  and  show  which  way  things  are 
going. 

"This  is  the  solution  of  the  problem  of  the  poet.  I 
pondered  over  it  long,  but  found  it  at  last.  Our  hope 
comes  from  Parnassus.  The  poets  will  help  us  con 
quer  the  foreign  market." 


198 


XXII 

My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side  " 

REEN  fields,  fair  forests,  singing  streams, 
pine-clad  mountains,  verdant  vistas — from 
the  monotony  of  the  city  to  the  monotony 
of  nature.  I  wanted  a  complete  change,  and  so  I  went 
to  the  East  Side  of  New  York  for  my  vacation.  That 
is  where  I  have  been." 

Thus  did  our  friend  explain  his  strange  disappear 
ance  and  unusual  absence  from  Boston  for  a  whole 
week.  For  the  first  time  since  he  came  here  from 
New  York  he  had  been  missing  from  his  home,  his 
regular  haunts,  such  as  the  cafes,  Jewish  book-stores 
and  the  debating  club,  and  none  of  those  whom  I 
asked  knew  whither  he  had  betaken  himself.  The 
direct  cause  of  his  disappearance,  explained  Keidan- 
sky,  was  a  railroad  pass,  which  he  had  secured  from 
a  friendly  editor  for  whom  he  had  done  some  work. 
He  went  on  explaining.  "  I  wanted  to  break  away 
for  awhile  from  the  sameness  and  solemnness,  the 
routine  and  respectability  of  this  town,  from  my 
weary  idleness,  empty  labors,  and  uniformity  of  our 
ideas  here,  so  when  the  opportunity  was  available  I 
took  a  little  journey  to  the  big  metropolis.  One  be 
comes  rusty  and  falls  into  a  rut  in  this  suburb.  I  was 
becoming  so  sedate,  stale  and  quiet  that  I  was  begin 
ning  to  be  afraid  of  myself.  The  revolutionary  spirit 
has  somewhat  subsided.  Many  of  the  comrades  have 

199 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

gone  back  on  their  ideas,  have  begun  to  practise  what 
they  preach,  to  improve  their  conditions  by  going 
into  business  and  into  work,  and  I  often  feel  lonely. 
Anti-imperialism,  Christian  Science  and  the  New 
Thought  are  amusing;  but  there  is  not  enough  ex 
citement  here.  Boston  is  not  progressive ;  there  are 
not  enough  foreigners  in  this  city.  People  from  many 
lands  with  all  sorts  of  ideas  and  the  friction  that  arises 
between  them — that  causes  progress.  New  York  is 
the  place,  and  it  is  also  the  refuge  of  all  radicals,  rev 
olutionaries  and  good  people  whom  the  wicked  old 
world  has  cast  out.  America,  to  retain  its  originalchar- 
acter,  must  constantly  be  replenished  by  hounded 
refugees  and  victims  of  persecution  in  despotic  lands. 
To  remain  lovers  of  freedom  we  must  have  suffer 
ers  from  oppression  with  us.  Sad  commentary,  this, 
upon  our  human  nature ;  but  so  are  nearly  all  com 
mentaries  upon  human  nature.  Commentaries  upon 
the  superhuman  are  tragic.  New  York  with  its  Ger 
mans  and  Russians  and  Jews  is  a  characteristic  Amer 
ican  city.  Boston  and  other  places  are  too  much  like 
Europe  —  cold,  narrow  and  provincial.  I  came  to 
Boston  some  time  ago  because  I  had  relatives  here 
—  the  last  reason  in  the  world  why  any  one  should 
go  anywhere ;  but  I  was  ignorant  and  superstitious 
in  those  days.  I  have  since  managed  to  emancipate 
myself,  more  or  less,  from  the  baneful  influences  of 
those  near  ;  but  meanwhile  I  have  established  my 
self,  have  become  interested  in  the  movements  and 
institutions  of  the  community,  and  here  I  am.  The 

200 


"My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side" 

symphony  concerts,  the  radical  movement,  the  li 
brary,  leclnires  on  art,  the  sunsets  over  the  Charles 
River,  the  Faneuil  Hall  protest  meetings  against 
everything  that  continues  to  be,  the  literary  paper 
published,  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  Gamelial  Brad 
ford,  Philip  Hale  and  so  many  other  fixtures  of  Bos 
ton  have  since  endeared  it  to  me  and  I  stayed.  Be 
sides, it  would  cost  me  too  much  to  ship  all  my  books 
to  New  York. 

"  But  wishing  a  change,  I  wanted  to  go  to  the  big 
metropolis.  No,  not  to  the  country ;  not  for  me  those 
parasitic,  pestering  and  polished  summer  hotels, 
where  a  pile  of  people  get  together  to  gossip  and 
giggle  and  gormandize  and  bore  each  other  for  sev 
eral  weeks.  An  accident  once  brought  me  to  one  of 
these  places.  I  went  out  to  see  some  friends,  and  I 
know  what  they  are.  They  spend  most  of  their  time 
dressing ;  these  vacationists  dress  three  times  a  day ; 
the  green  waist,  and  yellow  waist,  the  brown  skirt 
and  the  blue  suit,  the  red  jacket,  the  white  hat,  and 
the  gray  coat,  and  then  the  same  turn  over  again ; 
they  fill  themselves  with  all  sorts  of  heavy  and  un 
wholesome  foods  brought  from  the  cities  ;  they  sit 
around  the  verandas  and  talk  all  day,  never  daring 
to  venture  into  the  woods ;  they  do  no  good  to  them 
selves,  coming  home  tired  and  sick,  and  they  do  un 
speakable  wrong  by  turning  good,  honest  farmers 
into  parasitic,  sophisticated  boarder-breeders,  and 
by  turning  them  away  from  the  tilling  of  the  soil. 
No  more  of  these  places  for  me.  Of  course,  if  one 

201 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

could  go  into  the  woods  and  live  as  simply  as  a  sav 
age  for  awhile  itwould  be  fine ;  but  one  needs  a  tent, 
and  I  never  did  own  any  real  estate. 
"  But  this  time  I  wanted  a  complete  change;  I  want 
ed  something  to  move  and  stir  me  out  of  the  given 
groove,  the  beaten  path  I  was  falling  into,  some  ex 
citement  that  would  shake  the  cobwebs  out  of  my 
brain,  so  I  turned  towards  the  East  Side. 
"  They  are  all  there,  the  comrades,  the  radicals,  the 
red  ones,  and  dreamers ;  people  who  are  free  because 
they  own  nothing.  Poets,  philosophers,  novelists, 
dramatists,  artists,  editors,  agitators  and  other  idle 
and  useless  beings,  they  form  a  great  galaxy  in  the 
New  York  Ghetto.  For  several  years,  ever  since  I 
left  New  York,  I  had  been  receiving  instruction  and 
inspiration  from  them  through  the  medium  of  the 
Yiddish  and  the  Socialist  press,  where  my  own  things 
often  appeared  beside  their  spirited  outpourings,  and 
now  I  was  overcome  by  an  overpowering  desire  to 
meet  them  again,  talk  matters  over  and  fight  it  all 
out.  There  is  no  sham  about  the  East  Side  branch 
of  the  ancient  and  most  honorable  order  of  Bohe 
mians  —  the  little  changing,  moving  world  that  is 
flowing  with  the  milk  of  human  kindness  and  the 
honey  of  fraternal  affections,  where  those  who  live 
may  die  and  those  who  die  may  live.  Here  among 
the  East  Side  Bohemians  people  feel  freely,  acl:  in 
dependently,  speak  as  they  think  and  are  not  at  all 
ashamed  of  their  feelings.  They  have  courage.  They 
wear  their  conviclions  in  public.  They  do  as  they 

202 


"My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side" 

please,  whether  that  pleases  everybody  else  or  not. 
They  talk  with  the  purpose  of  saying  something. 
They  write  with  the  objed:  of  expressing  their  ideas. 
They  tell  the  truth  and  shame  those  who  do  not. 
Hearts  are  warm  because  they  own  their  souls. Those 
who  really  own  their  souls  will  never  lose  them.  As 
Joseph  Bovshover,  the  fine  poet  of  the  East  Side 
has  sung: 

c  Beauty  bideth, 
Nature  cbideth. 
When  the  heart  is  cold; 
Fame  is  galling, 
Gold's  enthralling, 
When  the  mind  is  sold.' 

"  They  all  assemble  in  the  cafes,  those  universities 
of  the  East  Side,  and  in  these  places  of  judgment  all 
things  are  determined.  Is  there  a  great  world  prob 
lem  that  puzzles  and  vexes  all  mankind  ?  The  de 
baters  at  one  of  these  tea-houses  take  it  up  at  their 
earliest  discussion  and  soon  the  problem  is  solved 
and  the  way  of  human  progress  is  clear  again.  Is 
there  a  question  that  has  troubled  the  ages  ?  Come 
and  spend  fifteen  minutes  on  the  East  Side,  and  the 
salvation  of  humanity  will  be  assured  to  you.  There 
is  so  much  squalor  and  suffering  and  sorrow  here 
that  nothing  can  overcome  the  optimism  of  these 
chosen  people.  Their  incurable  faith  cannot  be  shak 
en  even  by  their  religious  leaders,  and  when  they  be 
come  atheists  they  are  the  most  pious  atheists  in  all 
the  world.  But  in  the  cafes  the  great  issues  given  up 

203 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

in  despair  by  famous  statesmen  are  met  and  decided 
upon.  The  trusts  ?  Are  they  not  paving  the  way  for 
the  realization  of  Socialism  ?  Not  until  all  the  indus 
tries  have  been  concentrated  by  the  trusts  will  the 
people  through  the  government  be  able  to  take  pos 
session  of  them.  Otherwise,  how  in  the  world  will 
the  new  regime,  for  instance,  ever  organize  and  take 
hold  of  all  the  peanut  stands  of  the  land?  You  do 
not  understand  the  question  thoroughly  if  you  have 
not  read  the  articles  of  I.  A.  Hurwitz  in  the  c  Vor- 
warts.'  The  future  of  war  ?  There  will  be  no  war  in 
the  future.  The  workingmen  of  all  countries  are 
uniting  and  so  are  the  capitalists.  The  international 
movement  is  not  laboring  in  vain.  Socialism  is 
spreading  in  the  European  armies.  Every  govern 
ment  will  have  enough  trouble  in  its  own  land.  Oth 
ers  come  here  and  say  that  every  government  will 
have  to  fight  for  its  own  life  and  will  not  be  able  to 
do  anything  else.  People  will  take  Tolstoy's  advice 
and  cease  to  pay  taxes  and  withdraw  their  support 
from  the  powers  that  rule.  Tolstoy,  say  some,  is  a 
masterful  artist,  but  puerile  as  a  philosopher,  a  curi 
ous  mixture  of  genius  and  narrow-mindedness,  a 
man,  who  once  having  erred,  now  sins  against  man 
kind  by  denying  it  the  right  of  erring.  The  red- 
haired  ragged  orator  with  blue  eye-glasses  and  the 
face  of  a  Hebrew  Beethoven  quotes  Ingersoll. c  Tol 
stoy/  said  the  agnostic, c  stands  with  his  back  to  the 
rising  sun/  And  did  not  Edward  Carpenter  say  of 
Tolstoy's  book, c  that  strange  jumble  of  real  acumen 

204 


"My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side" 

and  bad  logic,  large-heartedness  and  fanaticism  — 
What  is  art?' 

"  Ibsen  is  somber  because  he  is  almost  alone  in  see 
ing  the  most  tragic  phases  of  life,  because  he  feels 
compelled  to  treat  what  all  other  artists  have  neg 
lected.  Many  of  his  plays  are  too  much  like  life  to  be 
a&ed,  and  we  go  to  the  theatre  only  to  see  plays. 
One  of  the  listeners  speaks  of  the  appreciation  of  Ib 
sen  in £  The  New  Spirit, '  by  Havellock  Ellis,  and  of 
the  analogy  that  he  finds  between  Ibsen  and  Whit 
man.  Zangwill  places  Ibsen  above  Shakespeare,  and 
more  recently  he  has  bestowed  great  praise  upon 
Hauptmann.  Rather  strange  of  Zangwill,  who  is 
himself  not  a  realist  and  has  gone  in  for  Zionism,  to 
like  Ibsen  so  much.  And  who  is  greater  than  Ibsen  ? 
some  one  asks.  'Perhaps  it  is  I.  Zangwill/  says  the 
cynical,  frowzy  and  frowning  little  journalist.  G. 
Bernard  Shaw  is  mentioned  as  a  candidate,  and  his 
great  little  book  on  Ibsenism  comes  in  for  a  heated 
discussion.  Brandes  is  quoted,  and  several  of  his 
admirers  present  go  into  ecstasies  over  his  works 
and  almost  forget  the  writers  whom  he  has  treated. 
The  pale-faced,  wistful-eyed  poet  with  the  Christ- 
like  face  rises  high  on  the  wings  of  his  eloquence 
in  praise  of  the  Danish  critic's  appreciation  of  Heine, 
and  Brandes  is  declared  to  be  one  of  the  greatest 
Jews  in  the  world.  What  was  it  Brandes  said  about 
Zionism?  Zionism,  Socialism  and  Anarchism  come 
up  in  turn,  and  so  many  trenchant  and  vital  things 
are  said  on  these  subjects.  Will  the  novel  pass  away? 

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Discourses  of  Keidansky 

The  dramatist — bulky  and  bearded,  impressive  and 
strong-looking,  with  wonderful  piercing  eyes  —  the 
dramatist  is  inclined  to  think  that  it  will.  The  short 
story  is  the  story  of  the  future.  Long  novels  give 
one  a  glimpse  of  eternity.  By  the  time  you  come  to 
the  last  chapter,  conditions  have  so  changed  in  the 
world  that  you  do  not  know  whether  the  story  is 
true  to  life  or  not.  It  is  the  necessarily  historical,  the 
long  novel  is.  Old  Jules  Verne  has  won  the  East 
Side  over  with  the  fine  words  he  has  said  on  Guy  De 
Maupassant.  Some  admirers  of  Z.  Libin  say  that 
the  Frenchman  is  too  romantic,  but  on  the  whole 
he  is  the  favorite  story-writer. 'Yes,'  says  the  Jewish 
actor,  cDe  Maupassant  writes  for  all  the  Yiddish 
papers';  and  in  fad:  all  the  East  Side  dailies  have 
for  years  been  treating  their  readers  to  his  charming 
tales.  He  may  be  imagined  to  be  a  constant  contrib 
utor.  Did  not  an  old  Israelite  walk  into  the  office 
of  the  'Jewish  Cry '  and  ask  to  see  Friedrich  Nie 
tzsche?  And  then  the  problem  of  Nietzsche  comes 
up ;  whether  he  was,  or  was  not  a  reaction  against,  or 
the  opposite  extreme  from,  the  meekness  of  Chris 
tianity,  the  weakness  of  his  time.  Wagner's  music, 
Stephen  Phillips's  poetry,  Zola's  essay  on  realism, 
Maeterlinck's  transcendentalism, Gorky's  rise  in  let 
ters,  the  Anglo-Saxon  isolation  in  literature,  Lud- 
wig  Fuldas's  latest  play,  all  these  things  are  decided 
upon  by  people  who  understand  them,  more  or 
less. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  more,  but  these  meetings  and 

206 


"My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side" 

these  talks  at  various  times  and  in  various  places 
made  my  vacation  on  the  East  Side  delightful.  Then 
there  were  lectures  and  meetings  and  social  gather 
ings  of  the  comrades.  The  sun  of  new  ideas  rises  on 
the  East  Side.  Everywhere  you  meet  people  who  are 
ready  to  fight  for  what  they  believe  in  and  who  do 
not  believe  in  fighting.  For  a  complete  change  and 
for  pure  air  you  must  go  among  the  people  who 
think  about  something,  have  faith  in  something. 
Katz,Cahan,  Gordin,  Yanofsky,  Zolotaroff,Hark- 
avy,  Frumkin,  Krantz,  Zametkin,  Zeifert,  Lessin, 
Elisovitz,  Winchevsky,  Jeff,  Leontief,  Lipsky, 
Freidus,  Frominson,  Selikowitch,  Palay,  Barondess, 
and  many  other  intellectual  leaders,  come  into  the 
cafes  to  pour  out  wisdom  and  drink  tea,  and  here 
comes  also  Huchins  Hapgood  to  get  his  education. 
Each  man  bears  his  own  particular  lantern,  it  is  true, 
but  each  one  carries  a  light  and  every  one  brings  a 
man  with  him. 

"There  was  that  memorial  mass-meeting  in  honor 
of  Hirsh  Leckert,  the  Jewish  shoemaker,  who  shot 
at  the  governor  of  Wilna,  who  took  his  life  in  hand 
to  avenge  a  hideous  outrage  perpetrated  upon  his 
fellow-workers  by  a  despicable  despot.  The  Jewish 
working-people  of  Wilna  organized  a  peaceful  pro 
cession,  and  at  the  behest  of  the  governor  hundreds 
of  them  were  mercilessly  flogged — flogged  until 
they  fainted,  and  when  revived,  flogged  again.  Then 
came  this  lowly  hero,  Leckert,  and  made  a  glorious 
ascent  on  the  scaffold.  In  the  afternoon  news  reached 

207 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

the  East  Side  that  Leckert  was  hanged.  The  same 
evening  the  working-people,  just  out  of  their  faclo- 
ries  and  sweat-shops,  in  overwhelming  numbers  as 
sembled  in  New  Irving  Hall,  and  the  fervor  and 
enthusiasm,  the  sobbing  and  the  sighing,  the  tear- 
stained  faces  and  love-lit  eyes — the  soul-stirring  eu 
logies  delivered  —  I  shall  never  forget  it.  I  tell  you 
no  man  ever  saw  anything  greater  or  more  inspiring 
on  his  vacation. 

"Mr.  Jacob  Gordin  gave  me  a  memorable  treat,  took 
me  to  see  his  latest  and  one  of  his  best  plays,  'Gott, 
Mensch,  und  der  Teufel. '  I  have  seen  many  of  his 
works  and  it  is  hard  to  decide  which  is  the  best  be 
cause  they  are  nearly  all  so  good.  But  this  strange 
story  of  a  Jewish  Faust,  the  pious,  saintly  Jew  who, 
tempted  by  Satan's  gold,  step  by  step  loses  his  soul 
and  cannot  live  without  it;  this  wonderful  blending 
of  modern  realism  and  supernatural  symbolism,  this 
superb  summary  of  man  and  the  new  problem  of  life, 
the  beauty  and  the  strength  of  the  work,  is  remark 
able,  to  say  the  least.  'As  in  times  of  yore, '  says  Satan, 
cthe  sons  of  Adam  are  divided  into  Abels  and  Cains. 
The  former  are  constantly  murdered  and  the  latter 
are  the  constant  murderers.  Gracious  Lord,  in  the 
new  man  there  dwells  the  old  savage  Adam/  Sorry  I 
cannot  tell  you  more  about  it  now,  but  the  last  words 
of  the  play  have  been  ringing  through  my  mind  ever 
since  I  saw  it. 

( All  must  die,  all  that  is  and  lives ; 
Life  alone  is  immortal. 
208 


"My  Vacation  on  the  East  Side" 

That  only  is  mortal  that  desires  and  strives, 
'The  striving  and  the  desire  immortal' 

"Why/'  added  Keidansky,  as  a  final  thunderbolt, "  I 
have  gained  enough  ideas  on  the  East  Side  to  last 
me  here  in  Boston  for  ten  years." 


209 


XXIII 

Our  Rivals  in  Fiflion 

"  A  FTER  all,  what  is  man  when  compared  to  the 
/\  hero  of  romance  P "  asked  Keidansky.  "  Be- 
J^  V  side  the  dashing,  dauntless,  duelling  cava 
lier  that  now  moves  through  the  popular  novel  and 
struts  our  stage/'  he  said,  "the  ordinary,  mortal  man 
of  mere  flesh  and  blood  pales  into  insignificance.  Be 
side  the  extraordinary  exploits  of  the  storied  hero, 
the  doings  of  the  every-day  man  are  like  the  foolish 
games  of  little  children,  only  not  half  so  graceful. 
Beside  the  strange  adventures  of  the  leading  charac 
ter,  the  simple  efforts  of  earthly  man  are  accounted 
as  naught.  It  would  not  be  so  bad  if  no  one  ever 
made  comparisons,  but  women  do,  and  so  men  are 
always  found  wanting,  and  have  a  harrowing  time 
of  it. 

"In  the  epic,  the  drama,  the  novel,  the  hero  has 
nothing  else  to  do  but  to  make  love,  to  deliver 
pretty  speeches,  perform  remarkable  feats  and  look 
graceful,  and  so  he  is  ever  so  attractive.  He  plays 
upon  the  hearts,  takes  hold  of  the  minds,  fastens 
himself  upon  the  imaginations  of  the  gentle  fair  and 
fanciful.  He  knows  just  what  to  say,  justwhat  to  do, 
and  just  where  to  go,  just  when  to  return,  and  is  al 
ways  so  punctual — appears  just  in  the  nick  of  time 
to  save  as  many  lives  as  are  in  danger.  He  becomes 
a  model,  a  type,  that  the  lady  fair  goes  in  quest  of, 

211 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

when  the  play  is  over,  or  the  novel  is  ended.  She 
turns  to  life  for  the  realization. 
"In  real  life  the  young  man  has  other  things  to  do 
than  making  love,  posing  prettily,  whispering  sweet 
somethings,  framing  compliments  and  ading  the 
gallant  and  defender  of  the  fair  and  perfectly  safe. 
He  has  other  things  to  do  than  wearing  fine  clothes 
and  winning  smiles.  In  real  life  he  has  a  real  battle 
to  fight.  In  real  life  he  cannot  always  look  neat,  act 
aptly,  prate  loudly,  and  say  the  improper  thing  at 
the  proper  time.  The  improper  thing  at  the  proper 
time — that  is  the  secret  of  genius.  Things  are  not 
so  smooth  in  life.  The  guidance  of  Providence  is  not 
so  clear  as  are  the  directions  of  the  playwright  and 
novelist.  Hard  to  tell  just  what  to  do,  just  what  to 
say,  just  where  to  go,  and  just  when  to  swear  with 
impunity.  Human  beings  are  clumsy,  awkward,  un 
couth.  Life  is  an  embarrassing  affair.  To  observe  all 
the  niceties  is  madness,  not  to  observe  them  is  to  be 
sent  to  a  madhouse.  What  can  a  man  do  against  his 
all-powerful  rival  in  fiction  and  the  drama.  His 
course  is  clear,  but  we  walk  in  darkness.  The  ways 
of  God  are  mysterious,  the  ways  of  men  are  crooked, 
and  then — we  are  told  to  find  the  way.  No  matter 
how  much  you  stand  on  ceremony  you  are  likely  to 
slip  and  fall  anyway.  Life  is  a  labyrinth  for  which 
there  is  no  specific  geography. 
"To  state  the  matter  more  definitely,  the  problem  is 
this :  A  young  man  spends  a  half  of  his  week's  wages, 
takes  the  lady  of  his  heart's  desire  to  the  theatre  — 

212 


Our  Rivals  in  FiElion 

and  she  falls  in  love  with  the  hero  of  the  play —  the 
omnipresent,  omnipotent  hero.  His  every  look, 
every  word,  every  gesture,  every  step,  every  ven 
ture —  it  is  just  too  lovely  for  anything.  Oh,  it  is 
adorable,  entrancing !  And  the  young  man  who  took 
her  to  the  theatre,  the  young  man  who  really  exists, 
what  does  he  amount  to  ?  What  a  puny  dwarf  he  be 
comes  beside  the  great  giant  of  the  drama.  Who  can 
say  things  so  sweetly,  so  smoothly,  so  sonorously, 
as  the  leading  character  or  characters  in  a  play  ?  Who 
can  do  things  so  neatly,  so  masterfully,  and  sur 
mount  such  overwhelming  difficulties  in  the  twink 
ling  of  an  eye?  Such  magnetic,  magnanimous,  ma 
jestic  figures  !  It  was  after  a  pretty  love  scene  on  the 
stage  that  I  once  heard  a  lady  sitting  near  me  say  to 
her  companion,  £  Oh,  if  some  one  would  say  "  my 
dear  "  to  me  in  that  manner !'  And  perhaps  the  young 
lady  will  go  all  through  life  without  finding  the  man, 
who  will  know  enough  to  imitate  that  actor. 
"A  young  man  buys  the  latest  and  most  loudly  ad 
vertised  historical  novel  and  sends  it  to  the  lady  of 
his  dreams.  On  the  next  evening  when  he  calls  she 
is  so  absorbed,  so  immersed  in  the  book  that  she 
hardly  has  anytime  to  speak  to  him.  When  she  does 
look  up  from  the  tome  she  tells  him  all  about  the 
hair-raising  hero,  Count  de  Mar. c  He  is  a  man,'  she 
says,  and  so  goes  on  to  relate  about  his  mighty  ex 
ploits.  There  is  nothing  worth  while  in  all  the  world 
except  a  man  like  Count  de  Mar.  Imagine,  if  you 
can,  how  the  young  man  feels.  And  the  lady  chases 

213 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

the  phantom  of  Count  de  Mar  in  real  life  until  she 
becomes  a  shadow  of  her  former  self,  and  the  young 
man  goes  through  existence  cursing  the  historical 
novel  in  general  and  Count  de  Mar  in  particular. 
What  else  but  misery  should  there  be  for  mere  man 
of  mere  reality  ?  What  is  he  beside  such  lords  of  crea 
tion  as  Count  de  Mar,  Richard  Carvel,  Ralph  Percy, 
Ralph  Marlow,  Stephen  Brice,  Clayton  Halowell, 
Charley  Steele,  Jean  Hugon,  Marmaduke  Howard, 
Count  Karobke,  Boris  Godofsky,  Louis  De  Lamoy, 
General  Kapzen,  Prince  Meturof — what  is  he  be 
side  these  ?  Everything  is  so  small  in  life,  in  books 
things  are  so  big.  The  world  is  already  created,  but 
fiction  is  still  being  written.  If  Adam  were  created 
by  a  novelist  he  would  have  fared  much  better.  The 
story  would  never  have  ended  happily.  These  won 
derful  heroes,  what  fine  means  they  have,  what  splen 
did  opportunities,  what  glorious  achievements,  what 
great  accomplishments  are  theirs.  They  can  do  just 
as  they  please,  have  fortunes  to  squander,  and  riot 
in  luxuries.  They  are  all  born  rich,  or  their  rich  rel 
atives  die  early,  and  in  good  will. 
"In  reality  it  is  so  different.  We  have  to  work  for  a 
living  and  poverty  is  our  reward.  In  real  life  we  have 
to  write  historical  novels  for  a  living.  We  have  to 
write  popular  plays  and  pretty  poems  and  sugar- 
coated  stories.  Yes,  such  is  life,  and  there  is  poverty 
and  the  misery  of  the  masses,  and  there  are  social 
problems  and  political  evils — things  unknown  in 
the  average  novel,  and  in  popular  art  generally.  We 

214 


Our  Rivals  in  FiElion 

must  do  so  much  that  is  irksome  in  order  to  have  a 
pleasurable  moment. 

"When  Richard  Mansfield  was  delivering  those 
sumptuous  stump  speeches  in  Shakespeare's  spectac 
ular  melodrama  of  £Henry  V.'  and  the  soldiers  were 
stirred  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  enthusiasm,  the  fair 
fraulein  in  front  of  me  constantly  kept  saying,  'Who 
would  n't  fight  for  Harry  ?'  Who  would  n't  fight  for 
Harry  ?  A  tremendous  artist  with  superb  words  put 
into  his  mouth  by  Shakespeare,with  a  beautiful  scenic 
background  behind  him,  with  gorgeous  costumes 
and  gleaming  armor,  with  glowing  eledric  lights, 
with  an  army  ofwell-drilled,  well-paid  supers,  with  all 
the  pomp  and  power  of  a  king  on  the  stage — who 
wouldn't  fight  for  Harry?  But  the  poor,  obscure, 
unknown  Harry  of  real  life,  who  faithfully  fights 
against  poverty,  disease,  despair,  who  battles  for  the 
right,  for  his  honor  and  salvation,  without  scenic  ef 
fects,  without  any  art,  or  author's  directions,  without 
any  light  or  armor,  without  any  aid  or  guides,  with 
out  any  one  to  show  the  way — this  Harry,  who  will 
fight  for  him  ?  Who  does  not  fight  against  him  ? 
What  fair  damosel  will  deign  to  smile  on  him  and 
shed  some  sunshine  into  his  life  ? 
"  This  was  on  a  street  car,  and  I  overheard  a  young 
woman  say  to  her  escort,  cAh,if  you  would  only  put 
your  gloves  on  as  Mansfield  does  in  "  Beaucaire" ! ' 
So  this  was  the  great  thing  in  the  play —  the  manner 
in  which c  Beaucaire '  donned  his  gloves.  And  yet — 
fool  that  I  was  —  I  had  wondered  why  an  actor  of 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

Mansfield's  surpassingtalent  should  put  on thestage 
such  a  trivial,  trashy  affair.  And  I  had  gone  without 
gloves  all  winter  in  order  that  I  might  be  able  to  see 
Mansfield.  Heavens !  But  see,  how  the  little  niceties, 
the  small  delicacies  and  the  petty  graces  on  the  stage 
and  in  books  eclipse  all  our  drudging  and  trudging, 
moiling  and  toiling  in  real  life.  We  are  expected  to 
observe  them  whatever  else  we  do.  Failing  in  these 
we  fail  to  win  affections  and  are  voted  dead  failures. 
Beside  these  we  are  expected  to  do  things  that  can 
only  be  done  in  books  and  on  the  stage,  under  the 
auspices  of  Alexandre  Dumas  the  elder  and  Victor 
Sardou,  for  instance.  We  are  expected  to  equal  those 
magic  creatures  of  the  imagination,  the  heroes  with 
their  opulent  supplies  of  good  looks,  words  and 
wealth,  and  their  strange  power  to  do  aught  on  earth. 
"James — we  will  call  him  that — is  red-headed, 
freckled,  plain,  and  generally  not  at  all  dudish.  He 
is,  however,  true,  loyal,  devoted  and  determined  to 
do  some  good  in  the  world.  He  tries  to  meet  her 
every  day  after  work.  He  often  brings  a  flower 
with  him,  tucked  up  in  his  sleeve.  Once  we  saw  him 
press  it  to  his  lips,  for  soon  the  bloom  will  be  hers. 
But  she  is  reading  an  historical  novel,  and  even  the 
flower  fails  to  deliver  his  message  and  fades  without 
fulfilling  its  mission.  Of  course,  James  has  this  ad 
vantage  over  the  ideal  hero  in  the  novel:  that  he 
really  exists ;  but  what  is  reality  to  the  glowing  fancy 
of  a  youthful  maiden?  And  in  spite  of  his  existence, 
where  does  James  come  in? 

216 


Our  Rivals  in  FiElion 

"These  are  local  and  popular  incidents  I  have  men 
tioned,  but  in  a  measure  all  literature,  all  art  has 
created  impossible  dreams,  unattainable  ideals. 
This  is  probably  the  reason  why  so  many  aspira 
tions  have  failed.  They  were  not  founded  on  reality. 
There  are  in  life  considerations  c  without  which  the 
noblest  dreams  are  a  form  of  opium  eating.'  Who 
knows  how  many  have  gone  grieving  through  life 
because  they  have  followed  the  phantoms  conjured 
up  by  the  false  standards  of  art  ?  With  all  that  is 
great  and  grand,  heroic  and  epic  in  real  life  there  is 
still  such  a  thing  as 

( The  high  that  proved  too  high,  the  heroic 

for  earth  too  hard, 
The  passion  that  left  the  ground  to  lose 

itself  in  the  sky/ 

"Anyway,  it  is  about  time  to  protest  against  the 
false  heroes  of  paper  and  ink,  who  cut  us  out  of  our 
earthly  paradise,  to  give  our  rivals  in  ficlion  the 
death  stab;  about  time  to  remember  that  that  which 
is  not  cannot  be  great,  and  that  all  the  beauty  of  this 
universe  is  in  real  life.  It  is  about  time  to  deny  the 
existence  of  that  which  does  not  exist. 
"  This  demand  for  the  superhuman  is  inhuman.  We 
are  not  what  we  are  not.  We  cannot  do  whatwe  can 
not  do,  and  these  platitudes  are  as  profound  as  they 
are  obvious.  The  weakness  of  the  world  is  pointed 
out  by  its  heromania.  That  we  look  for  our  heroes 
not  in  life  but  in  artificial  creations  shows  how  blind 
we  are.  The  most  striking  sign  of  our  imperfection  is 

217 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

our  longing  for  impossible  perfection.  Life  has  a 
great  grudge  against  art.  It  has  been  slighted,  disre 
garded,  abused.  With  its  misleading  models  it  has 
set  up  an  unjust  competition  against  life.  The  hope 
is  that  the  artists  to  come  will  give  life  a  hearing  and 
adjust  matters.  As  for  the  novelists,  every  time  the 
good  Mr.  Howells  horsewhips  the  swashbucklers  I 
heartily  applaud  him.  But  I  am  not  going  to  lay 
down  any  principles.  I  don't  feel  like  it  to-day.  Per 
haps  things  as  they  were  were  for  the  best.  Perhaps 
it  is  for  the  dreams  of  women  that  there  are  real  men 
in  the  world  to-day.  Perhaps  it  is  their  longing  for 
the  impossible  that  made  the  best  that  is  possible 
to-day.  I  sometimes  think  that  a  woman's  reason  is 
the  very  acme  of  all  wisdom.  But  I  am  going  to 
treat  this  thing  more  fully  in  my  volume  of  essays — 
if  I  ever  get  around  to  writing  them." 


218 


XXIV 

On  Enjoying  One  s  Own  Writings 

I  WAS  alone,ensconced  in  a  corner  of  the  noisy, 
smoky  cafe,  perusing  the  pages  of  a  valued  vol 
ume.  Keidansky  walked  in  hastily,  took  up  my 
book  and  looked  at  it. 

"How  can  you  read  anything  that  you  have  not 
written  yourself? "  he  asked,  with  surprising  solem 
nity.  "  Why,  I  don't  mind  it  any  longer;  I  am  used 
to  it  now,"  I  mumbled  in  astonishment.  But  conver 
sations  with  Keidansky  are  one-sided.  Before  I  had 
formed  half  a  thought  he  was  all  ready  with  speech. 
"You  are  coming  down,  dear  fellow/'  he  said; 
"  you  are  compromising  and  becoming  reconciled  to 
everything.  You  cannot  supply  your  own  demand, 
so  you  are  going  elsewhere  for  your  literature  — 
spending  on  others  your  days  and  your  nights  that 
you  may  devote  to  the  excavations  of  the  things 
that  lie  deep  and  dormant  within  thyself.  I  wager 
that  before  long  you  will  even  be  reading  the  clas 
sics.  You  will  abdicate  from  the  sovereignty  of  your 
own  genius,  and  measure  life  by  the  enjoyment  that 
you  derive  from  the  things  that  other  people  do. 
"  Aliens,  foreigners,  strangers  as  far  away  from  you 
as  different  individuals  are,  millions  of  miles  of  im 
passable  icebergs  impeding  any  possible  approach. 
They  were  not  born  as  you  were  born,  they  have 
not  lived  as  you  have  lived,  they  have  not  loved  as 

219 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

you  have  loved,  they  have  not  hated  as  you  have 
hated,  they  have  not  grappled  with  the  agonies  as 
you  have,  they  have  not  died  as  you  have  over  and 
over  again,  and  yet — you  read  their  books  and  pre 
tend  to  enjoy  them." 

I  asked  my  friend  to  be  seated,  but  he  preferred  to 
stand  up,  and  with  a  characteristic  wave  of  the  hand, 
showed  his  annoyance  at  being  interrupted. "  If  you 
have  not  felt  what  I  have  felt,"  he  said,  "it  is  use 
less  for  me  to  speak  to  you,  and  for  you  to  enjoy 
what  I  write  is  hard  and  tedious  labor.  You  cannot 
get  behind  the  things  others  say,  and  all  that  re 
mains  for  you  to  do  is  to  read  the  meaning  in  so 
many  words;  and  no  meaning  is  ever  absolutely 
uttered  in  so  many  words.  There  is  almost  always 
something  unsaid  behind  the  thing  that  is  said. 
There  is  as  much  in  as  there  is  out.  Thought  is  an 
endless  chain  of  which  we  only  see  separate  rings. 
We  are  fortunate  to  see  that  in  the  case  of  other 
persons.  Most  often  you  only  hear  and  read  their 
talk.  But  when  you  read  your  own  thought,  you 
read  so  vastly  more  than  you  have  written,  and  you 
read  the  history  of  your  thoughts,  their  far-away 
causes,  their  prehistoric  origins,  and  their  subter 
ranean  sources — and  you  enjoy  it.  You  enjoy  it,  if 
you  are  intimately  concerned  in  one  near  and  dear 
personality,  in  the  greatest  study  in  all  mankind — 
yourself.  Also,  if  you  are  interested  in  the  evolu 
tion  of  human  thought,  and  can  see  it  through  the 
operations  of  your  own  mind. 

220 


On  Enjoying  Ones  Own  Writings 

"We  say  in  Yiddish  about  this  or  that  person: ( Er 
kumt  mit  sich  fun  ein  stedtel?  Well,  I,  too,  come  from 
the  same  town  with  myself.  I  have  gone  through 
the  dark  labyrinth  of  life  with  myself  in  my  hand. 
I  have  felt,  experienced  and  known  the  same  things 
that  Keidansky  has  gone  through,  and — frankly — 
I  enjoy  my  own  writings.  Sometimes  my  favorite 
works  are  my  own.  They  move  me,  they  stir  me  and 
they  stimulate  me  to  higher  things.  There  is  a  qual 
ity  about  them,  more  human,  more  intimate,  more 
personal,  that  brings  them  nearer  to  me  than  any 
other  writings.  The  pathos  is  so  touching,  the  hu 
mor  so  rollicking,  the  satire  so  pungent.  It  is  all  so 
effective,  significant  and  strong.  Words,  lines,  sen 
tences,  pages  that  fall  flat  on  the  ears  of  another, 
they  are  pregnant  with  meaning,  choked  full  of  sug 
gestion,  and  often  so  thrilling.  That  one  has  felt, 
thought,  said,  given  birth  to  these  things,  is  so  fine; 
so  splendid  to  watch  a  grand  procession  of  the  chil 
dren  of  your  brain  —  particularly  when  you  are  in 
tuitively  convinced  that  they  are,  well,  a  goodly  and 
well-formed  brood,  and  worthy  of  you.  They  have 
to  be  quite  robust  to  withstand  that  uncomfortable 
critical  sense. 

"You  see,  I  want  a  personality,  a  man,  a  certain 
mental  attitude,  a  sense  of  reserve  force,  deep-root 
ed  sincerity  and  determined  intentions  behind  what 
I  read,  and  I  am  sure  of  all  that,  in  the  case  of  my 
own  writings.  This  gives  one  a  feeling  of  gladness 
and  joy.  In  the  productions  of  others  one  must  grope 

221 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

in  darkness,  painfully  explore,  and  so  often  search 
in  vain  for  these  qualities  through  their  mental  ma 
noeuvres  and  spiritual  contortions. 
"In  our  own  work  we  can  easily  forgive  the  flaws, 
faults  and  shortcomings.  We  know  why  they  exist, 
and  to  what  to  attribute  them ;  we  realize  that  they 
are  not  due  to  lack  of  talent  or  any  cause  like  that. 
Our  characteristic  carelessness,  our  hasty  manner, 
impatience  at  the  slow  accommodations  of  mere  me 
chanical  words,  a  desire  to  say  too  many  things  at 
the  same  time — if  it  is  not  the  one,  it  is  the  other. 
But  we  know  that  we  could  do  better  if  we  wanted 
to;  if  we  cared  less  about  the  matter  than  about  the 
form.  We  know  that  the  quality  is  there.  There  is 
nothing  the  matter  with  that.  But  somehow  we  can 
not  account  so  well  for  the  crudities,  defects  and  de 
formities  in  the  performances  of  others,  which  jar 
upon  us  terribly  and  mar  so  much  of  our  pleasure. 
Their  failings  are  so  flagrant,  their  meanings  so  neb 
ulous,  their  ideas  so  hazy.  It  is  all  so  far  off  and  so 
unsatisfying. Why  do  people  write  things  we  do  not 
like?  Oh,  the  rogues,  we  answer  ourselves,  as  the 
thought  comes  to  us,  they  must  be  doing  it  for  their 
own  enjoyment.  They  can  fill  in  the  gaps,  read  in 
everything  that  is  lacking;  they  can  make  master 
pieces  while  they  read  their  commonplace  utterances 
—  but  we?  We  ought  to  read  our  own  immortal 
works.  We  ought  to,  if  we  have  any  appreciation  of 
great  literature. 
"One  great  source  of  the  enjoyment  of  our  own 

222 


On  Enjoying  One  s  Own  Writings 

writings  is  that  as  we  read  we  remember  when  each 
thought  came  to  us,  whence  each  idea  sprang  into 
birth,  how  each  flying  fancy  originated,  and  every 
vaporous  whimsy  took  shape.  We  go  over  the  old 
ground,  tread  the  paths  of  the  past  again,  the  paths 
overgrown  with  grass,  or  covered  with  the  moss  of 
the  years,  and  we  live  our  life  over  again.  Words, 
lines,  paragraphs,  pages ;  each  turn  of  a  phrase  brings 
one  back  to  some  turning-point  of  life;  each  flash 
of  thought  is  the  reflection  of  some  vital  incident. 
Behind  every  revolution  of  mind  was  a  distinct 
period  of  evolution.  Every  old  cry  conjures  up  a 
crisis.  That  epigram  sums  up  an  entire  epoch.  This 
page  is  a  condensed  history  of  your  heart.  Yonder 
little  etching,  who  knows  of  what  stuff  you  have 
woven  it?  It  all  comes  back  to  you  so  vividly,  so 
graphically,  so  impressively.  You  read  the  things 
that  you  have  written,  no  matter  how  long  ago,  and 
you  live  your  life  over  again.  The  past  reaches  out 
its  arms  and  hugs  you  to  its  tender  breast  again. 
"  One  night,  far  away  from  the  city,  nigh  by  the  sea,  a 
painful  silence  was  broken  by  agonizing  speech.  One 
word,  and  the  world  that  God  had  created  in  seven 
days  was  annihilated  for  you  in  a  second.  When  you 
came  back  in  the  silence  of  a  sleepless  night  you 
wrotein  your  note-book. c  Our  dreams  are  crimes  for 
which  we  are  punished  by  the  harsh  realities  of  the 
world.'  See  how  ideas  evolve  !  One  day  you  were 
chided  on  the  shortness  of  your  stature.  You  said 
that  you  have  not  had  any  time  to  grow.  Later  you 

223 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

said  to  some  one  else  that  the  shape  of  one's  destiny 
depends  on  the  management  of  his  time. 
"  The  origin  of  a  thought  is  greater  than  the  thought. 
It  is  often  an  entire  drama;  and  you  see  it  performed 
as  you  read.  The  crowding  multitudes  of  memories 
that  your  literary  productions  bring  up !  This  was 
suggested  at  a  social  gathering,  where  you  felt  dis 
tressingly  lonely,  and  it  was  such  a  soothing  conso 
lation.  It  was  while  witnessing  a  play  that  that  idea 
came  into  your  mind.  The  play  was  a  popular  suc 
cess,  so  you  were  thinking  your  own  thoughts.  One 
night  at  a  symphony  concert  you  wrote  on  the  edge 
of  a  programme : c  Music  makes  mute  poets  of  us  all.' 
You  read  it  years  after,  and  oh,  the  cherished  recol 
lections  that  it  brings  up  !  But  no  one  else  can  ever 
know  how  great  that  line  is.  Here  is  an  idea  that  il 
lumined  your  mind  while  in  conversation  with . 

There  were  so  many  delightful  conversations,  stir 
ring  discussions,  endearing  episodes ;  there  were 
scenes  that  you  witnessed,  events  transpired  of  which 
you  were  part ;  there  were  little  dramas  of  which  you 
were  both  the  villain  and  the  hero.  They  have  all 
passed  away,  and  yet  you  have  saved  them  from  ob 
livion  because  you  have  written,  and  they  cannot  die. 
All  things  are  immortal  so  long  as  you  live.  You 
read,  and  the  old  talks  and  the  old  walks,  the  things 
that  you  have  seen  and  done,  the  joys  you  have  felt 
and  the  sorrows  you  have  endured  come  back  and 
you  enjoy  them  over  again.  You  find  this  in  your 
writings  and  so  much  more.  The  net  results  of  your 

224 


On  Enjoying  Ones  Own  Writings 

own  ruminations  are  so  large  that  there  is  no  won 
der  all  other  writers  suffer  from  the  comparison. 
Your  writings  are  the  plants,  the  weeds  and  the  flow 
ers  that  have  grown  out  of  your  life,  and  their  aroma 
and  fragrance  of  earliest  bloom  follow  you  to  the 
end  of  your  days.  There  is  that  in  your  inner  con 
sciousness  which  you  cannot  find  anywhere  else. 
"  The  whole  universe  is  within  yourself;  in  others 
there  is  only  a  queer  notion  of  it.  Your  crudest  ex 
pression  has  more  feeling  and  thought  behind  it  than 
the  most  beautiful  expression  of  others.  We  all  cher 
ish  and  relish  our  own  screeds.  Are  we  not  all  con 
vinced  of  their  merits  and  superior  qualities  ?  Are  we 
not  all  anxious  to  secure  editors  and  publishers  ?  And 
who  rejects  them?  These  editors  and  the  publishers, 
the  people  who  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  produc 
tion  of  these  undoubted  works  of  genius.  I  have  piles 
of  scraps  of  old  bits  of  paper  and  note-books  up  in 
my  place,  extending  over  a  number  of  years.  They 
contain  stray  fragments  of  thought  that  I  have  jotted 
down  at  all  places  and  seasons  and  under  all  sorts  of 
circumstances.  As  I  come  across  them  now  and  then, 
I  not  only  re-experience  what  has  long  vanished,  but 
I  am  again  exalted  unto  all  heights  of  human  aspira 
tion  and  inspiration.  The  foolishness  and  the  follies, 
the  faith  and  the  fervor,  and  the  blind  hopes  of  my 
youth  are  mine  again. 

"  Once  I  was  with  some  Jewish  actors,  friends  of 
mine,  when  a  long-bearded,  old-fashioned  Israelite 
came  in  to  offer  them  a  play  that  he  had  written  for 

225 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

production.  It  was  such  a  touching,  thrilling  story, 
the  old  man  said,  that  it  made  him  weep  every  time 
he  read  it — weep  like  a  child  over  the  sad  compli 
cations  of  the  characters  in  his  play.  Oh,  if  he  could 
only  see  it  performed,  it  would  melt,  it  would  break 
his  heart.  Oh,  if  the  actors  would  only  take  it!  And 
as  he  began  to  read  parts  of  the  first  act  we  actually 
saw  tears  in  his  eyes.  There  you  have  it.  What  Dick 
ens,  what  Tolstoy,  what  Perez,  what  Gordin  could 
probably  not  do  for  this  man,  he  had  done  for  him 
self.  His  own  writings  made  him  weep.  Honestly, 
now,"  Keidansky  broke  out  violently,  "don't  you 
enjoy  your  own  effusions  ?  " 

I  admitted  that  they  often  gave  me  pleasure,  and 
that  at  other  times  I  felt  strongly  disappointed  over 
them. "  Sometimes,"  I  said, "  I  am  puzzled  and  can 
not  account  how  I  have  done  certain  things.  I  say  to 
myself  that  I  must  have  been  drunk  to  have  been  so 
witty ;  or  I  imagine  that  I  must  have  been  in  the  com 
pany  of  bright  people  to  have  been  so  dull.  Often  as 
I  read  I  think  that  my  stomach  was  out  of  order  to 
make  me  so  thoughtful.  And  again  I  am  sure  that  I 
was  awfully  hungry  to  have  been  so  ingenious."  I 
confessed  that  I  found  it  quite  possible  to  overlook 
and  forgive  the  faults  of  my  own  compositions,  and 
that  on  the  whole  they  were  not  infrequently  a  source 
of  pleasure  to  me.  I  ventured  to  say  that  I  also  en 
joyed  a  few  things  that  other  people  have  written. 
<c  Well,"  said  Keidansky,  and  then  he  became  silent 
for  awhile. 

226 


On  Enjoying  One  s  Own  Jt^ritings 

£C  Immortal  works  are  good  enough  to  kill  time,"  he 
said  after  a  pause ;  "  but  my  own  writings  for  real, 
downright  enjoyment,  every  time.  At  the  occasion 
of  a  big  convention  or  political  gathering  in  a  cer 
tain  city  the  newspaper  correspondents,  I  am  told, 
present  a  striking  scene  as  they  assemble  in  the  lobby 
of  their  hotel  when  the  newspapers  arrive.  Each  man 
rushes  to  the  news-stand  and  buys  chis  paper/  and 
loses  not  a  minute  before  reading  his  own  report. 
There  they  sit  all  together,  oblivious  even  of  a  good 
piece  of  news,  should  it  happen  to  be  near  them,  each 
one  buried  in  his  newspaper,  intently  reading  his 
complete  account  of  the  stormy  proceedings,  and 
many  of  them  cursing  and  swearing  at  the  stupid 
editors, c  who  left  out  the  best  things/  Editors  are 
always  stupid  and  always  leave  out  the  best  things ; 
but  if  they  did  n't  they  would  be  idiots.  My  point, 
however,  is  that  this  scene  shows  how  much  people 
enjoy  their  own  writings.  Each  author  has  at  least 
one  great  admirer. 

"  And  this  is  saying  nothing  of  the  gratification  of 
writing,  of  the  thrills  of  pleasure  one  feels,  when  a 
burst  of  inspiration  breaks  upon  him,  of  the  great, 
unutterable  moments  of  exultation  when  a  new 
heaven  of  thoughts  opens  before  one's  mind,  of  the 
joys  of  perpetuating  the  evanescent  and  the  fleet- 
ing." 

My  friend  was  about  to  enumerate  some  more  ex 
amples,  but  it  was  growing  late  into  the  night,  so  I 
said  : 

227 


Discourses  of  Keidansky 

"  But  you  do  read  some  things  that  eminent  authors 

have  written,  do  you  not?" 

"  Yes/'  said  Keidansky,  "  but  merely  for  purposes 

of  comparison.  I  want  to  see  how  total  is  their 

eclips 


e!" 


228 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

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MAY  2  0  1998 

U.  C.  BERKELEY 

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(J9096slO)476-A-32 


University  of  California 
Berkeley 


YB  76371 


